On The Failings Of Dating A Single Parent
by Shoo-Shoo Amelia
Summary: How would that look if he lost his temper with the child of someone he was trying to impress? It wouldn’t look good at all was how it would look.
1. On The Proper Etiquette Of First Dates

**A/N: Eh, this is my first Hetalia fic, so, I'm sorry if its made of nothing but fail.**

* * *

England had been planning this date for three weeks. He had made the reservations at a very nice restaurant about a week and half in advance. He had painstakingly made sure that his favorite tie was clean and pressed and set just so. After hours and hours of deliberation (and consulting* with France), he had chosen the perfect pair of loafers to go with his outfit.

In short, the planning of this date had been so fucking _troublesome_ that all of this had better get him some sort of _something _at the end of the night. Although, England had to admit the entire stress of planning was entirely his fault since he had insisted that he was going to court America like a _proper _gentleman this time around**.

So, three weeks of intensive planning had led to what England expected to be a bloody amazing date. This date would piss on any other sad excuse of a date that America had previously been on. It would trump that time in '57 when Russia and America had gone to a fast food diner and skating rink. This date was going to be the epitome of what a good date should be. And he would be _damned_ if something was going to go awry because if something did go terribly, horribly wrong for whatever reason, England knew exactly where his regalia from his pirating days was.

Presently, England was examining himself in the hotel mirror. He felt very pleased with himself and knew that he looked perfectly handsome, if he wasn't being too sure of himself. So, with his red tie and goldenrod handkerchief in the breast pocket, England ran a critical eye over his appearance and decided that it was time to leave for America's house.

England had everything planned down to an exact science. It would take him about twenty minutes to drive from his hotel to America's house near the White House. So, if he wanted to get there early and with some time to spare to talk with America before they headed off for dinner he would have to leave immediately. So, making sure his pale blond hair were in perfect order and his kerchief complimented the brown of his suit, England grabbed the keys to his car, locked the door to his hotel room and headed down to where he had parked the rental car.

* * *

* Technically, this "consulting" consisted of England cursing and yelling insults into the phone until France begrudgingly said that it was rather alright to wear brown loafers with a Harris Tweed suit. Francis did not agree with that one bit but he was not about to piss on England's merry little tea party.

** The previous time wasn't exactly a courtship as much as it was just England fucking America senseless right before the start of the American Revolution and that had been a mistake because it had landed America with 21 little mistakes that he couldn't get rid of. Moreover, the word 'mistake' was an affectionate synonym for the word 'state'.

* * *

When England arrived at America's house, he felt more confident that he had felt in a long while. He had just finished chewing on a mint and was prepared to give the other nation the beautiful bouquet of flowers that he had picked up. So, exiting the car while fidgeting with his tie and collar for a moment, England walked up the driveway, practicing the greeting the he had rehearsed in the mirror earlier that morning.

As he approached the door, he heard the crying of a child and a loud base beat emanating from the colonial style door. Double-checking that he had gotten the right house, England was surprised that all of that noise was coming from America's house. Then again, he shouldn't have been surprised at all because it was _America_ and England knew better than anyone that he was an extremely noisy person. Still, how so much noise could come from such a large house, England had no idea.

Clearing his throat again, England knocked twice on the door in a loud manner so that he would be heard over the roaring of whatever music his former colony was currently listening to.

When the door opened, England thought that Spain had answered the door. The resemblance between Spain and whoever answered the door was simply uncanny, and then England remembered. It had to be a state because no other person in the entire world had power blue eyes like that other than America's children.

The carbon copy of Spain, once England had discreetly snuck a peek at him, looked about fifteen (maybe a little older or younger) was slimmer than both Spain and America but with the same tan skin and curly brown hair that Spain had. England quickly concluded that Spain was most definitely the father of this one and judging from the Mickey Mouse shirt on the slight boy, he was Florida. A dreadful screeching noise alerted England of the baby on Spain's hip. England didn't have to look twice to know it was Ivan's just because of the hair and the eyes. The Briton also took note of the fact that Alaska had that same flyaway hair that America had. Oh, how atrociously and disgustingly _adorable._

"I–" England started to say but was cut off before he really got the chance to state his purpose for being on America's doorstep dressed in tweed and carrying a massive bouquet of roses. Florida moved aside, still balancing the Ivan-Spawn on his hip, to allow England entrance into the house.

"He's in the shower. He was ready to go but Hawaii spit up on him so he had to go change. And, man, I mean Hawaii _rea_lly did a number on him. Covered, totally covered." Florida said, glaring down at Alaska who was still sobbing with all the might his tiny lungs could manage. At this point, England was ready to say something; he even had his mouth open and everything but, yet again, Florida beat him to the punch.

"Mom should be down in about twenty. He just got in. So–" Florida said, drawing out the 'so' and looking aggravated at the noisy baby he was carrying. The state shuffled over to a coffee table in the living room and snatched a blue pacifier off it before jamming it into the baby's mouth to effectively shut him up. "By the way, there's tea right here if you want some. I guess Mom wanted to chill before you guys left or whatever."

"Ah, thank you. You must be Florida." England said, helping himself to a small cup of tea, mixing sugar into it.

"Yeah."

The conversation awkwardly lulled about them for a moment where the only thing that could be heard was Alaska suckling feverishly on the pacifier in his mouth.

"So, are you banging Mom?" Florida asked innocently, blue eyes practically bursting with curiosity.

England promptly choked on the tea he had just been about to swallow, scalding his wrist when some sloshed over the rim of the cup. How was he supposed to answer that question? What was he supposed to say in a situation like this? His mind raced with how to answer this tactfully and politely but he couldn't find anything to really say.

"Er–"

"I'll take that as a 'yes'. That's cool. I mean, I guess it's cool if you and Mom are down with it."

"What are you listening to? Hm?" England quickly asked, setting the cup and saucer down on the coffee table in front of him.

"Gloria Estefan. You like her?"

"Can't say I've ever really listened to her. I'm not-that is to say, well- I'm not very . . . keen on music." England said. This entire conversation should not have been as awkward as it was. Nevertheless, he kept thinking of how Florida was made and what that involved and every time Alaska moved, England had to fight to keep his lunch down at the mere thought of Russia doing things to America. Sick was an understatement.

"Well, this is an awkward turtle, huh?"

"Beg pardon?" England said, thick brows furrowing.

"You know, you're banging Mom and, jeez, you've got all these kids with Mom. Doesn't it, like, intimidate you _at all _that other people have kids with him?"

England knew that he couldn't snap at Florida. How would that look if he lost his temper with the child of someone he was _trying_ to impress? It wouldn't look good at all was how it would look. So, he opted to take a demure sip of his tea, cleared his throat and cooed at the Ivan-Spawn for a second before squaring his shoulders and looking directly at Florida.

"Why, in the name of the Queen, would it disturb me at all?" England finally responding, sensing that he had won. He quirked an eyebrow as if to say _"Surrender now, puny child. I am the mighty England and there is no way that you can intimidate me out of dating your Father, silly boy."_

"'Cause. Think about it. When Mom popped Virginia out, I'm pretty sure you were all like 'Oh, hey there, state. Nah, you're gonna be our only one~'. But, boy, were you freaking wrong, uh?" Florida paused to tap on Alaska's nose, "You and Mom had like twenty-one kids. Colonies. Whatever you freaking want to call them. It started with one for everyone, dude. Seriously? You and France are great at it. And, jeez, take it from me, the Chernobyl disaster has Russia firing everything _but_ blanks, buddy. So, what's to stop Japan and Russia from knocking Mom up again, huh?" Florida said, honey sweet smile on his face as he continued to play with Alaska who was tittering on in a very Russia-like manner.

England felt his ego metaphorically shatter into a million pieces, stepped on, and spat on. He wanted oh-so-badly to just get up and smack this insolent little brat across the face or at least give him a very long lecture on just _why_ taunting the person who might very well become a typical face in your family life was a bad idea. Fortunately for Florida's ears (or, well, maybe not), Hawaii began to wail from wherever in the house the other state was.

"Be right back, I'm gonna go get her." Florida said, practically dumping Alaska into England's lap and practically skipping down the hall to retrieve his sibling.

Alaska innocently stared up at him with those large violet eyes that made England's stomach clench in dread. Why did he suddenly feel so nervous? This was practically an infant. There was nothing that this _child_ could do to him that he couldn't live through. He was England; he used to be one of the most prominent empires in the world. This was Alaska. A frozen and barren tundra that nobody really cared about. This child, this _thing_ was Ivan-Spawn and, somehow, even with all this against it, Alaska made England smile when the child took a strong hold of England's ring finger.

No! No, what was he doing? He quickly snatched his finger away, growling in frustration when Alaska giggled happily.

Florida, at that moment, came back in holding Hawaii who practically had 'Japan's Child' stamped on her forehead. She was a pretty little girl with black hair done up in pigtails and those same blue eyes that Florida had.

Oh, but by the bloody _Queen_, America made absolutely beautiful children. Truth be told, he hadn't seen any of _his_ children in a very long while, be he was sure that they all must have turned out perfectly handsome or beautiful with America as a contributor to their genes.

England cleared his throat and pointedly avoided looking at any of the children, even Alaska who was trying to get his attention by smacking at his chest somewhat. The awkward silence loomed over the four occupants in the room, two of who were completely unaware of anything. The only thing breaking the silence occasionally was Florida cooing at Hawaii in a rapid string of Spanish that England was trying to translate in his head.

He knew enough Spanish to get a few key words like 'man' and 'old' but when he really thought about it, he was sure that Florida was saying something along the lines of: '_Oh, cute little baby, please don't cry and don't be afraid of the old man with the ugly eye brows. He's only here to steal Mommy's attention away from you, so there's nothing to be afraid of._'

There was a sound from the staircase and England stopped staring down his nose at Florida to turn his attention toward the blond vision that was coming down the stairs.

America looked breathtaking in his suit. It was a tad rumpled and he would have to get on America about going into public with rumpled clothes but, really, he could care less now. His former colony pushed his glasses up the bridge of his nose with his middle finger and, for some reason, something so commonplace was only sexy when America did it. Knowing that he was probably staring with that odd expression that France thought was indigestion on his face, England cleared his throat and deposited Alaska on the floor next to the couch.

"Alfred, you look fantastic. Although, a tad rumpled." England said, taking up the massive bouquet and walking to his date, stiff upper lip softening into a small smile.

"Of course, just can't win with you, can I?" America said, playful and teasing. He took the flowers, grinning that amazing grin that made England's stomach contort and twist happily. Oh, America was beautiful and perfect but he'd rather be shot in the head before he said that aloud.

"Oh, for me? You shouldn't have!" America cried, burying his nose in one of the red flowers, inhaling deeply. Across the room, Florida cleared his throat and, as if on cue, Alaska spit out his pacifier and started to wail loudly.

"Well, I did, you git." England grumbled, watching as America carelessly deposited the roses on the coffee table and went over to the crying state. Well, fuck his life, please and thank you.

"Oh, don't be a fusspot, please. You're gonna be good for Aureliano, right? Hm? You're so pretty," America said, rubbing his nose together with the Ivan-Spawn, making a complete fool of himself. Florida didn't seem to mind much, too busy engaging England in a glaring contest, which only stopped when America said something to the older state.

"Aureliano. You took your Lithium* today?" America said, putting the pacifier back in Alaska's mouth and tousling the child's beige hair.

"Yes, Mom." Florida responded, rolling his eyes.

"Don't _call me that_. You're sure you took it? I'm not going to come back and find Alaska missing an eye because you had an episode, right, mister?" America asked, hands on his hips and glasses sliding down his nose.

"_Yes_, Dad. I took my pills today. _Dios mio_." Florida griped, bouncing Hawaii up and down.

"Alright. Now, you know where everything is and you know my cell number?"

"YES. DAD. I. KNOW."

"Look, I'm just making sure. All right, well, be careful. Blah, blah, _blah_, nothing you haven't heard before. If you need anything, you call me and I'll come right home, okay?"

"Yes, Daddy."

"I love you, Aureliano. Daddy loves you guys!" America said, pecking the three states on the forehead quickly.

"Are you quite ready to go?" England asked, rolling his eyes as America carried on with his children for a second.

"Huh? Oh, yeah, yeah. Sure." America responded, straightening up and shoving his hands in his pockets. England put a possessive hand on the small of the younger nation's back, leading him toward the door and opening it. America went out quickly, waving at Florida who had followed them to the door.

"The door to the car is open, Alfred," England said, staring at Florida. America made his way down the driveway quickly.

"Firstly, you need to turn that bloody music down," England hissed at Florida, hand tightening around the door handle.

"Like you can tell me what to do, old man." Florida huffed, rolling his eyes.

"I can and I will. You should be nicer to me, you know." England said, eyes hardening but a small smile creeping onto his face.

"Oh, yeah? Why?" Florida challenged, his eyes flashing.

"Because you don't know what I'm capable of. Secondly, I'm going to be your stepfather very, very soon. I expect that you'll be behaving yourself. Well, good night, my lad." England said, grinning and closing the door behind him as Alaska started to wail loudly.

Game. Set. Match.

* * *

* Florida was bipolar and the weather in his state was testament to that. The only time he had ever forgotten to take his medication had ended with Texas–who was a slightly bigger than Alfred– being given a black eye and California with his earring yanked out of his ear. Florida never forgot again.

* * *

**END**

**A/N: Augh, you made it through! Sorry for making you sit through that! Leave a review and let me know how I did?**


	2. On The Proper Acceptance of Invitations

**A/N: I was totally floored by the reaction to the first part and the idea that I should continue this. So, due to popular demand and consensus, I've to continue this. So, I hope you enjoy and have a good time reading it. And for anyone that is curious, Hawaii became a state August the twenty-first in 1959.**

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Normally, people who saw things that normal people weren't able to see* didn't scare very easily. Naturally, England didn't scare easily at all. He was England and he had never really scared very easily at all. When Rome had decided to barge onto his land, building that ridiculous wall, he hadn't been scared. When that entire Battle of Trafalgar business was swirling about, he hadn't been scared. When Germany had been staring him dead in the face as bombs exploded in his beautiful country – his _heart _being torn apart right in front of him– he had felt a very strong sense of annoyance and anger, but not fright. During that entire Cold War bullocks, he hadn't even flinched at the mention of a nuclear holocaust because he knew that Russia didn't have the balls to do something like that.

Therefore, the obnoxiously colored envelope in his hand didn't frighten him as much as it miffed him.

He could tell just by the handwriting on the envelope that it was from America because America had a very distinctive and immediately recognizable kind of scrawl. So, England was torn between opening it and reading whatever the contents inside were or finishing his tea.

On one hand, he could open in now while he was drinking his tea and risk spitting the liquid out due to whatever was in the envelope. On the other hand, he could savor his tea and enjoy the rainy afternoon that was currently going on just outside his window.

He decided that he would drink his tea very slowly, relish the excellent taste of it and then, only then, would he open the envelope because, _really_, he hated to waste anything that was so nice on his tongue. So, he would take his bloody good time sipping and enjoying his afternoon tea.

Eventually, when there was no more of that beautiful caffeinated drink to be poured on his tongue, he finally conceded to opening the envelope that seemed to loom on the table as if it had its own personality that was vaguely reminiscent of Sweden's. Before he tore it open, he headed to his study, intent on finding his letter opener** to slit the cursed thing open. Finally, with his ankles crossed as he sat at his desk, England withdrew the contents.

An invitation, equally as bright as the envelope, was the treacherous letter that had been inside and England simply stared down at it. It was an invitation that America had made himself judging by the fact that everything was written in sparkly yellow ink that made England's eyes strain and water slightly. There were cutout flowers everywhere on the piece of thick card stock. Although, the Briton had to admit that the delicate pink ribbon tied to the card was quite a nice touch, the card was a bit showy and flashy and England had to make sure that it wasn't an invitation to a party for the Fourth of July because England simply wouldn't attend. At all.

But when he looked at the date, it was being held two weeks from today (a Saturday) and wasn't for America at all. By the flowery script that said '_for whom:_' the card said 'Kalani'. England had to look on toward the rest of the card to see what else was written there.

Apparently, it was a family affair and England was invited.

Oh, bloody pissing bullocks.

England knew that under different circumstances, he wouldn't even think twice about rejecting this but this was _America_ that he would be rejecting and he knew the boy better than he cared to admit. Actually, chances were slim that anybody knew his former colony better than he did. Except, that is, for Canada. It was the boy's brother so _of course _he knew America slightly better than England did.

Either way, they both knew how getting invitations rejected just tore the poor boy down. Secondly, England knew exactly what would happen if he even thought about rejecting the invite.

America would play the 'Oh, _Arthur_, You're Just Insecure Around The Kids' card and England would snap back that, excuse him, he wasn't bloody insecure at all! America would roll his eyes and respond with an uppity 'Sure you're not'. They would yell and shout and one thing would lead to another and, eventually, America would storm out, practically frothing at the mouth with rage and England would shout that he hoped he had a bloody good time because that was quite the last he would be seeing of his British arse for quite a while. America would, no doubt, turn around, blue eyes blazing like unholy fire, and stick his middle finger up. Then they wouldn't talk for whatever amount of days.

Pondering if he really wanted to go through that this month or the next, England sighed. He rubbed at the small space between his expansive eyebrows. Oh, God and the Queen, what should he say. He only had three days to respond if it pleased him or not. Sighing and practically yanking himself out of the chair, he walked to the living room and stared at the number on the card as he yanked the phone off the hook and detangled some of the chord. Fingers stabbing at the numbers aggressively, he balanced the phone in between his shoulder and his head. It rang for quite a while before he finally got a scratchy voice on the other line.

"'Lo?" The Voice said, sounding completely like not-Alfred.

"Alfred?" England said, clearing his throat and doing that math if it was four thirty here then it must have been about eleven in the morning on the eastern coast of America. So, really, nobody should have been asleep as such an indecent hour in the morning.

"No, this ain't Alfred. This s'Bert. " The Voice said and England felt his eyebrow twitch and his gut clench in the same way it always did when he heard someone mangling the beauty that was the English language. That accent, the general lazy lilt of it and just the way is drawled over his ears like syrup made out of sunshine and pure liquid heat, had to be from Texas.

"Bert?" England asked, feeling oddly stupid for saying such an awful name.

"Yeah, this is Bertie. Bert. Alberto. _Texas._ Whatever. Who the hell is this and why the hell are you calling my Ma's house?"

"This is England."

"Oh. It's _you._ I heard all about _you _from Florida. You're the jerk that's datin' my Ma now." Texas drawled in a menacing manner and, really, it didn't frighten England one bit. Just what was it about him dating America that offended the states so much? Was it his accent?

"What? I can assure you, my good fellow, that I am no such thing. Perhaps he simply didn't understand that I have only the best of intentions for your father."

"Yeah, yeah. Whatever. But lemme tell you something, pops,"

"Be my guest, _Bert_."

"Now look here, my family pretty much runs this place, m'kay? We make sure everything is in order because Ma's kinda scatterbrained and he tends to forget stuff. We clean the house, we mix Ma's drinks. We can be really scary people. Just read a book on the Civil War, old man. Do not fuck with us."

"I'm sorry but it seems to me that you're trying to intimidate me, my boy." England returned, knowing that Texas couldn't beat him in a verbal smack down because England had had centuries and centuries of practicing English snark and wit. So, if push came to shove, England could win this battle without trouble. For God's sake, England had been friends with _Oscar Wilde_.

"W-well, I just wanted to let you know that Ma means a lot to us and we don't take to kindly to strangers."

"I've fucked your father. A large number of times. I'm not exactly a stranger, hm?"

"I–Hey now, uhm–Wait. What?"

"Your father. My prick. His arse." England said, rolling his eyes. Really, there just wasn't a polite way to put it that wouldn't warp the poor southern state's psyche. Well, mental well-being be damned, because if he had to be plagued by nightmares involving Russia, America, and Alaska, then it was fair that Texas had to be subjected to the same thing. Misery did indeed love company.

"H-hey now, you don't have to be telling me that kind o'stuff! I mean, Jesus, that's–"

"Fairly beside the point. Would you _please_ just ask me about the sodding reason I called? Bloody hell."

"Will ya stop telling me weird and creepy stuff 'bout Ma?" Texas practically whispered and England had to listen very closely and strain his ears to catch it. England rolled his eyes and smirked internally, knowing that he would have time to put scarring mental images in Texas' mind sometime soon and the mental torture could wait until then.

"Of course. Now just ask so that I may _please_ get on with my life. I do have one, you know." England snapped into the phone. God, those Americans were all the same. They never knew when to just shut up and do as they were told.

"So, old man, why're you calling?" Texas finally said after a long pause that made England want to pull his own teeth out.

"I was just calling to, ahem, RSVP for Hawaii's party." England said, trailing off uncertainly.

"Oh! _Oh!_That's awesome. Here, let me just get a piece of paper and a, uh, pen." The phone was put down loudly and noisily, and England caught the worst end of that due to random feedback suddenly growing very intense for whatever reason. Cursing at the sudden auditory attack, England dropped the phone and struggled to grab the curled wire chord that was entangling itself even more. Oh, joy. He made a mental note to detangle that later. England hurriedly brought the phone up to his ear to see if Texas had come back to the phone and found that the state hadn't. Although that horrid feedback was screeching in the background.

He heard shuffling for a moment and heard someone scream '_Bert_!_ Jesus Christ!_' quite loudly and then somebody picked up the phone and England felt his heart flutter somewhat nervously. He was quite pleased that the horrid feedback had stopped but he couldn't quite stop his forehead from creasing in annoyance. It was a natural reaction, rather like his inclination for hating all things French. It just sort of happened.

"England?"

And, _oh, _his name couldn't have sounded sweeter even if his beloved Elizabeth had said it. Alfred had such a nice voice that it made England's toes curl slightly at simply the sound. Honestly though, he wasn't about to go announcing that to everyone. It would be terribly embarrassing.

"America? Hello, love. How're you?"

"I'd be a hell of a lot better if Texas fucking listened to me for once." America said from the other side of the phone, sounding perfectly happy if not a tad annoyed.

"Is he misbehaving?" England asked, feeling rather old and creepy for asking something like that.

"Well, the thing is, is that I _always _tell the kids–and, seriously, I don't even know how many times _I've told them_," here America's voice became slightly distant and England simply knew that he was shouting at Texas and that made the sadist inside him smile and squirm happily, "to _not_ put the phone by the radio because it causes feedback for the other person. Bertie _knows _that. I'm really sorry, England. I don't know what's up with him. He's been in a shitty mood all week."

"Oh, no. I perfectly understand, dear. Children can be somewhat difficult at times." England responded, pressing the phone closer to his ear with his shoulder as he struggled with the phone chord's difficult tangles. He reminded himself for the third time that month that he needed to get a phone that did have this damnable and annoying thing attached to it.

"Yeah, I know. Still, I'm really sorry. He knows better and he should have put the phone somewhere else." America sighed into the phone. All England had to do was close his eyes and he could visualize what the other nation was doing. It brought a smile to his face and even though England was alone, he was nervous that someone would see him smiling like an utter fool and he quickly covered it up by clearing his throat.

"Oh, don't worry about it. It's nothing very bad. I'm sure he didn't mean anything by it at all. It's not like he did on purpose." England grunted knowing damn well better than America that Texas _had _meant something by it and that the state _had_ done it on purpose. Oh, England was going to torture that poor boy until he abandoned the entire "Get Away From My Dad, Old Man" campaign.

"Whatever, I'll just have to talk to him about it later. He knows how much I hate that. So, why are you calling? To talk to the coolness that is me?" America asked, tone light and airy.

"Actually, no. I was calling to inform you that I was coming to Hawaii's birthday party."

"Oh, _England_! That's great. Thank you so much, it means a lot to me. I thought you were going to say no. But I sent the invitation anyway because I, well, thanks. Plus, I think Florida really likes you. He hasn't stopped talking about you since he saw you. Although, for some reason, he says you're a bit of a stiff. Whatever that means." America prattled on and England wasn't even listening to a word he said. Truth be told, he was simply enjoying the sound of America's voice before he heard the word 'Florida' and his mood went down the proverbial drain.

"Stop talking, you silly git." England interjected to which America simply laughed loudly.

"Sorry." America eventually apologized after his fit of giggles had passed.

"Yes, well, I have a few questions." England said, trying to keep the curt tone out of his voice but failing slightly.

"Shoot." America said, seemingly oblivious to the terse quality the Briton's voice carried.

"How should I dress for this?"

"It's casual so you don't really have to dress up or anything."

That was a relief.

"Sounds perfect. I'll be there. Well, I must be going. I've got terribly important things to do." England said, finally managing to detangle a knot. He smirked down in victory at the troublesome phone chord.

"England." America said brightly and England could practically hear the million dollar grin in America's voice.

"Hm?" England grunted, rolling his eyes. In truth, he didn't have anything special to do. If he really wanted to, he would have stayed on the phone with America all day. But the news _would _be on soon and England couldn't talk on the phone and watch the news at the same time because either he got too distracted by the person on the phone or he fell silent in the conversation. He wasn't very good at multitasking.

"Love you, babe."

England smiled fondly at the sappy endearment and chuckled lightly into the phone. It melted his heart to say the least. So, he smiled warmly– not that he would ever admit to the stupid grin on his face– and simply enjoyed the warm blush that he could feel on his cheeks.

"Love you, too."

And then England hung up before America could start the wretched 'no, I love you more' business that he was so fond of starting. Really, things like that had to be avoided if one was a bloody gentleman because when a gentleman said that the loved something, their word was not to be doubted.

And, after all, Sir Arthur Kirkland was a damned gentleman if he did say so himself.

He checked the digital clock on his oven and wondered if he had enough time to run out and buy presents before the news started. England decided that he would watch the afternoon news and then, tomorrow, he would head out and buy _Japan's*** _child a present.

Oh, the things he did for love.

* * *

*Technically, this was a thing that doctors were calling 'hallucinations'; England called them fairies.

**Every _proper _gentleman had a letter opener because it wasn't polite to simply rip an envelope open. England had come into possession of this particular letter opener after poor Robert Stewart committed suicide with it. People had nearly gone mad trying to find it and England never told them he had it. There was just something pleasantly morbid about it that entranced normal people to just slash at themselves in randomly vital places. It had nicked him once and England had shouted at the object for hours afterwards. Sadly, it didn't quite apologize so much as it sat there looking very proud of itself. Bloody horrid thing.

***The child wasn't even his and here he was, considering what to get her as a gift. This was absolutely ridiculous and, under normal circumstances, he wouldn't have _ever_ done something like this. However, love and courting took sacrifices.

* * *

**TBC**

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**A/N: Thanks for reading, have a good day/night, and maybe leave me a review?**


	3. On The Way of Properly Dealing With Kids

**A/N: This chapter has two parts, so I hope you guys enjoy this and thanks for taking the time to read!**

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Traditionally, it wasn't odd for parents to hold small gatherings to celebrate the birth of their children. So, it was only natural that America had invited him over for a birthday party for the youngest of his children. It was a polite gesture and England had thought about rejecting it but had decided to go anyway. It was awkward because England didn't have much experience at attending parties because people never invited him. Which in and of itself was all right and it only hurt his feelings sometimes but other times it was exactly what he wanted. England liked being alone, honestly. He really liked self-imposed, self-styled solitude. It was nice.

This led him to his current status of being not-alone.

Two weeks after receiving the invitation in the mail, England was standing at America's front door once again. Oddly enough, the change of scenery wasn't very different from the first time when he had come to pick up America for their date about a month ago. Except he was dressed casually* for this encounter and he was holding a massive basket filled with gifts that he had found appropriate for the occasion. He wasn't exactly particularly good at giving gifts but when he put his mind to it, they always came out very nice.

He checked his wristwatch and noted that he was an hour early. England was nothing if not a stickler for punctuality and every nation knew about it. It bothered him when other people were late, like America,—the boy was _always, _without fail, fifteen or twenty minutes late. Some called it being 'fashionably late'; England thought it was tasteless and annoying. A fair share of dinner dates and important meetings had been abandoned because England wouldn't wait more than half an hour for a late person and, in return, England hadn't ever missed a single meeting because if he wasn't early he was there _on time_.

England knocked on the door, struggling somewhat with the basket. He noted that a major difference from the first time he had knocked on America's door was that there wasn't any booming music this time and there were balloons tied to the mail box. How quaint.

After a minute or so of waiting, America answered the door looking slightly out of breath and amazingly beautiful even if his clothing left something to be desired. Today, America was wearing a rather loose black tee-shirt and nicely fitting jeans. England's eyes also caught sight of a red plaid sweater wrapped around America's waist loosely and threatening to fall at any movement. It was so undeniably American in style that it made England's teeth hurt slightly and his nicely creased dress pants threaten to become a bit _too_ tight.

"Hey," America said, moving aside so that England could get into the house and grinning happily.

"Hello, yourself. Why are you so out of breath?" England said, walking in and looking around for a place to deposit the gift. It wasn't that he didn't want to hold it, it was just so big and it was obstructing his view of America and the floor. He did rather like to look at the person he was talking to.

"I was hanging up a banner in the backyard with Canada and some of the kids." America responded, seeing England's plight and taking the basket over to a table that was decorated with pink and yellow and looking generally tropical. It was rather cliché to have a tropical themed party for the embodiment of an _island_. But America liked tacky, so England didn't pursue the topic.

And then what America had said registered in England's brain.

The kids were in the backyard.

The kids were in the.

The kids.

_Kids. _

And they were in the backyard.

Oh, _no_.

Most probably, they were waiting to tear him limb from limb and devour his very soul and essence**. But Canada was also in the backyard, which meant that if he did venture out there anytime soon, he would at least have a witness to his murder. This, England supposed, was a very good thing.

"England? England? _Arthur?_" America said, waving his hand in front of England's face. England saw the hand and looked up from staring at his shoes with a brooding look on his face.

"Ah, yes?" England answered, looking at America with a very curious expression on his face. Before he had time to say anything else, he felt a strong pair of arms encircle his waist and that's when he felt a commonplace heat start in on his face. Without hesitating, England's arms came up to hook 'round America's neck. He was getting flustered from a hug. Well, by George, maybe he was as sexually repressed as France insisted. Not that he was agreeing with that French bastard. Not at all.

"Missed you. Always do." America whispered before promptly kissing him. Honestly, if they continued like this, there would be another state quickly on its merry little way into the world because, Jesus _Christ_, a single touch from America did _things_ to him that no other person had ever been capable of doing. With a single touch anyway. England hummed happily, deepening the kiss. Suddenly, he remembered that he was being a gentleman about this and decided that this was definitely not very proper.

"America, I can't. We can't. I told you that I would be a gentleman this time around." England said, clearing his throat and stepping away from America, who looked entirely too disappointed by his sudden removal.

"Uh, England. It's a kiss." America said, grinning like the airhead he was. England sighed and rolled his eyes toward the ceiling. Nothing was ever simple with his former colony.

"I know that, you twat. Nevertheless, if I start now, I just won't be able to stop myself and, eventually, one thing would lead to another and there might be another state popping out of you soon. And, really, that's the last thing I want happening right now." England muttered

"I like kids, though." America whined as England earnestly took a step back and leaned on the countertop closest to him.

"I don—" England stopped himself from saying that particular thing and instead opted to stare at America. He could metaphorically see himself stepping on eggshells at the moment. He cleared his throat and looked around the room, noting the freshly cut white flowers on America's coffee table. England found that he needed to say something to distract America from what he had almost said.

"America, love, do you happen to have anything that I could drink? Maybe some sort of whiskey?" Because if England was going to be dealing with the states than he was going to have to have a steady supply of hard liquors pumping through his veins at all times.

"Whiskey? You're going to get drunk at eleven in the morning at a kids' party?" America said, grinning and practically wetting himself with laughter. To any other _sane_ parent, it would have seemed absolutely ridiculous. In America's eyes, it was simply hilarious and England was slightly thankful for that because he was really going to need that drink.

"I never said I was going to get bloody pissed, America. I just want something to drink." England grunted, rolling his eyes and leaning somewhat to the right so that he could see out the expansive sliding glass door into the equally expansive backyard. He caught a glance of someone blond and decided that it was Canada. Oh, it would be nice to talk with the other country, they didn't talk nearly enough these days.

"Alright, well, I'll get that for you. Why don't you just head outside and hang out with Mattie and the boys while I get this thing ready?" America suggested, striding into the kitchen on long legs that England followed with his eyes appreciatively.

"Right. I'll do that." England said, sighing and mentally preparing himself for the horror that inevitably waited behind that protective barrier of the glass door. Looking like a doomed man heading in to face a horrible monster, England walked out into the backyard with his shoulders squared. He made his way toward Canada who was talking with two people who looked rather like him. Except they were slightly taller and from what he could tell, they were more muscular than Canada.

That made England stop short and his heart stuttered*** for a moment. Oh, please, if those were Canada's kids with America then England would be obligated to kill himself. If only because _those_ two would hate England with an unimaginable intensity forever.

"Hello, Canada." England managed to say, finding that his teeth hurt from grinding and gnashing them together on his short walk out to the yard.

"Oh! Hey, I didn't know you were coming!" Canada said, smiling and it didn't quite have the same effect that America's smile had on him.

"And who are these two handsome fellows?" England asked politely, hoping that he didn't sound as odd as he felt saying that.

"Ah, these are my kids with Alfred. Michigan and Minnesota, respectively named Kelley and Keith." Canada said and the two states grinned widely. They looked to be around the same age, sixteen or seventeen if England had to guess, and were somewhat paler than America but fully reminded him of Canada, without the crippling shyness. Their hair was all Alfred, as was their broad-shouldered build, but the eyes were courtesy of Canada.

Had everyone gotten a piece of America while England wasn't paying attention? When had America found time for all of this? It was making him slightly paranoid and he didn't even know what to think about it. Even _Canada_ had kids with America. _How_ and _when _had this debauched madness transpired? Besides, it was making him feel insecure and it would only be a matter of time before he started to second-guess himself. Oh, _here_ came the inferiority complex.

"Hey, I'm Kelley." The slightly taller of the two brothers said, hands shoved into his pockets. He didn't bother attempting to shake England's hand and Canada either didn't seem to notice this or didn't seem to care that Michigan wasn't being very cordial.

"And I'm Keith. It's a pleasure to meet you, Mr. uh–?" Minnesota said, smiling politely and offering England his hand.

"England. Arthur Kirkland, if you'd like to get technical." England said, reaching out and taking a firm hold of the pale hand that was offered to him. Canada didn't really seem to be interested in this train of conversation because he went back to talking to Michigan quietly.

"Ah, I heard from Bertie —that is to say Texas— that you're dating Ma now. That's really nice." The state was still smiling slightly and it was rather disturbing by this point.

"I suppose it is." England replied, eyes darting to a tree.

"I think it's really nice, you know. Oh! Where are my manners, would you like something to drink?"

"Oh, no, thank you. Your Father is bringing me something to drink."

"Don't say 'no' to him. He'll just keep asking if you want something to drink." Michigan piped up raucously, grinning a confident grin that mirrored America's.

"He already said 'no', Kelley. So, I won't press the situation. If he doesn't want any, that's his decision." Minnesota said, small smile still on his face. The smile was starting to remind England of Russia and that wasn't good at all because it was making him slightly jittery. America needed to hurry up.

"Yeah, wait a few minutes and he'll offer you some coffee." Michigan continued, smiling widely.

"Look, Michigan, why don't you just drop it? It's not nice to make fun of how nice your brother is." Canada finally said, pushing his glasses up his nose and patting both of the states on the shoulder. Michigan rolled his eyes and Minnesota looked slightly happier now that his father was on his side.

"Fine. But if he _does_ offer you any coffee, you have to take it and tell me." Michigan said, leaning over to whisper in England's general direction. Canada excused himself to go back inside and England looked at the two brothers, feeling as if they were going to attack him at any given moment.

An awkward pause floated above the three males for a moment, until Minnesota cleared his throat politely.

"So, do you play hockey?"

"Do I play hoc—_No_. Not really, it's not very popular in England. I do play tennis and I'm rather good at rugby, though." England said, focusing on the odd glares Michigan was sending at him and returning them with more fervor. If that little bloody wanker didn't stop soon, England was going to have to take drastic measures.

"Oh, rugby. That's really interesting. It's a, uh, a bit like football, right?" Michigan asked, taking his hands out of his pockets and crossing his muscular arms over his chest. Minnesota unfolded his arms from being crossed over his chest to jamming his fists so far into his pockets that it looked mildly painful.

"Yes, but more violent, I believe. There are teeth being knocked out and there is very painful elbowing. It really is fun to watch if you like violent sports. Which I don't, mind you, but it is good for getting an awful headache if that's what you want." England said, turning around when he heard the sliding glass door opening behind him. Luckily, it was America holding a cup of whiskey and moving toward him with a huge grin on his face. England felt his smile brighten considerably and the daisies that were lazily swaying in the summer breeze, seemed to suddenly start smiling and giggling.

"Hello, Alfred. I was just speaking with these two. They're very delightful." England said, begrudgingly admitting that he wasn't lying about America's children for once. These two were either going out of their way to get on England's good side or they really were this pleasant with people. The latter could be said for Minnesota while the former was the more likely option for Michigan, smarmy little bastard that he was.

"I know, right? They're good kids. But if they get on your nerves with their bickering, just smack one of 'em and they'll stop really fast." America said, handing England the drink along with a quick kiss on the cheek.

"Ugh, we're seriously not _that_ bad, I promise. We never fight in public because Keith is afraid I'll kick his ass." Michigan said, grinning widely. Apparently, Michigan seemed to take more after America in the personality department. Minnesota sighed and his smile faltered for a moment.

"Well, I have to head back inside. Bertie is here, you guys and he bought a football with him, so why don't you guys play a quick round. Everyone else will be here soon." America said, giving England another kiss on the cheek, which caused England to flush and almost spit out his drink in surprise. Really, America was just so public with his affection and, frankly, it was rude and a little embarrassing. England would have to have a chat with him about that.

"Awh, man! I _so_ don't want to play football with Bertie because he gets too crazy and he's huge and his tackles hurt my ass." Michigan griped, punching his brother lightly on the arm. Minnesota endured it with the patience of a martyr. England had to recognize Minnesota, the boy went out of his way to be nice with people. Although, a tad _too _nice from what England could tell.

"Yeah, but you know he probably came with California and Florida. Those two have been hanging out a lot with Florida lately. It's nice that they're getting along." Minnesota commented, flinching when his brother punched his forearm a bit too hard.

"It's 'cause California wants to get in Florida's pants. I don't know why though, Florida is such a little brat."

Without even thinking about it, England's filter seemed to suddenly disappear momentarily.

"I wholeheartedly agree with you, Kelley." England said, realizing his mistake as Minnesota's eyes narrowed and Michigan stopped mid punch to glare at England.

"What?"

Well, although those were two impressive glares that were being sent his way, England fixed the two states with a very level glare of his own. It was starting to wear on his nerves very quickly that the states always seemed to want to tear England down for whatever reason. Apparently, this time it would be a battle about a mutually shared opinion that England wasn't allowed to give.

"You heard me. I think Florida is a _brat_." England said, taking a sip of his drink and enjoying the fiery burn of the alcohol down his throat and the curious warmth the bloomed in his belly. These two daft tossers were in for a hell of a fight if that's what they were after. England wouldn't be humiliated at all by these two. For God and Queen's sake, nobody even remembered their _father_'s name, not even that damn polar bear Canada carried around knew who the bloody fucking hell he was and England wasn't above mentioning that. It would be a low blow but, sometimes, low blows were the most useful for putting people into their places.

"Take it back." Michigan said, straightening himself out and puffing out his chest.

"I shouldn't have to. It's an opinion that we both share, my boy." England said, taking another swig of his drink.

"Listen you limey bastard, I'm not your 'boy'!" Michigan growled, taking a step toward England. England, for his part, simply couldn't hold back the condescending laughter that bubbled out of his mouth. He wasn't about to be pushed around by this American oaf. Let the boy do what he would but, clearly, the boy knew nothing about his background as Captain Kirkland.

"No, no. You're right, you're not 'my boy'. How rude of me to forget that you are your uncle's child." England volleyed, eyebrow quirking somewhat and smirking.

"What you're just gonna stand there and do nothing, Minnesota?" Michigan screamed at his brother, eyes blazing in anger.

"I'm a _pacifist_!" Minnesota screamed back at his brother, looking terribly distraught. England almost sympathized with him. Almost.

"Listen, I'm not beyond whipping your British ass back to England, all right?" Michigan said and, oh, England was just waiting for him to make a move.

"This coming from the result of an incestuous affair." England said calmly and finishing his drink in a large swig. Truth be told, he was already starting to feel somewhat lightheaded. Oh, he simply loved alcohol even if he didn't quite remember what he did under it's sweet influence.

"Fuck you, you fucking ass hat!" Michigan roared, making a move to get nearer to England when Minnesota sprung up and grabbed his brother's arm. Oh, how amusing, now Minnesota was trying to protect him. He didn't know whether to be insulted of annoyed. He didn't know which one to choose so he just went with antagonistic.

"Guys, seriously!" Minnesota said, installing himself between them. He looked nervous and somewhat helpless and he floundered between the two.

"Keith, get the _fuck_ out of my way."

"Kelley! Just let it go, it's just his opinion and, seriously, remember what Dad always says about opinions?" Minnesota cried desperately, turning to look at his brother. Michigan sighed and took a step back and some part of England's mind said that was good but another part was still egging the state on to just go on and _bloody hit him and make his day_. Michigan rolled his eyes and roughly raked his hand through his blond hair. England quirked his eyebrow even higher, silently challenging him still.

"Yeah, yeah, I know. 'Opinions are like assholes, everyone's got one'. That's what Dad always says." Michigan said, face somewhat red. England rolled his eyes and started back inside. He needed to ask America where he kept that bottle because he needed another cup of it if he was going to be putting up with this all day.

* * *

*England's definition of casual was somewhat skewed because it involved dress shirts, ties, sweater vests and black or khaki slacks. And a pair of loafers.

**If this had actually been the intent of the kids in the backyard, they would have found themselves with a very upset stomach. English souls were somewhat melancholy and tasted perfectly of mad men and poets, which was a horrible combination. And there was absolutely no wine in the entire world that combined well with it.

***When England's heart skipped a beat, every stoplight in London simultaneously shut off and it left many authorities confused as to why. England, upon going back to his house, explained to the Queen that his heart skipping a beat had triggered it. The Queen had been rather confused about it but accepted the information with a certain curiosity in her eyes.

* * *

**TBC**

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**A/N: I have no excuse for making Michigan such a loose canon except for the fact that Detroit is in Michigan. So, I'm sorry if Michigan wasn't exactly what anyone was expect. Secondly, I wanted to really exaggerate the entire 'Minnesota nice' trait and I'm pretty sure I nailed it the way I wanted! Either way, thanks for reading. Leave a review?**


	4. On How To Play Football Properly

**

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**A/N: Woo! Two updates in one day! How's that? Like, seriously, I don't know a thing about football, so I went to Wikipedia and read about it, and, seriously, I still floundered through this entire thing. I hope you have a good time reading this! By the way, I have no clue where I'm going with this, like, at all. I've got another chapter planned but after that, I don't know what to actually do. So, suggestions are welcome!

* * *

Three tumblers of alcohol later and Fifteen minutes before the actual party began, England had worked off his sweater vest, taken off his cuff links, and loosened his tie considerably. From his post on a chair in the dining room, England found himself staring at the side of Japan's head with an expression of disdain on his face.

Oh, wasn't this just perfectly _rich_?

It wasn't that it annoyed him that Japan was here, no, not at _all_. He was rather fond of Japan, actually*. He found Japan to be a fellow intellectual, if not a bit fixated on odd sexual perversions. So, no, it wasn't that Japan's presence bothered him, per se. It was just that Japan's gift was bigger than his.

England had spent _so_ much money on his gift (money he barely even _had_, what with the horrid recession going on) and here was Japan, practically pissing on his gift as he set the large box wrapped in pretty paper on the gift table. England didn't bother looking up as the door opened once again, and _oh_, he wished he had because suddenly a rather annoying Frenchman had taken up temporary residence in his lap. He wasn't quite drunk enough to be dealing with it, so he simply shoved at France until the other blond man was on the floor looking slightly put out.

"Get off me, you ponce!" England said, kicking feebly at France who was now working himself off the floor and looking rather indignant.

"Ah, but my lovely Angleterre, I was simply coming to say bonjour!" France said, reaching for England's hand. England smacked it away, enjoying the hiss of pain that France made. That should teach that annoying frog.

"Well, you may now shove your bonjour up your arse, you dolt. I don't want it and neither does anyone else here." England said, managing not to slur it out. He wasn't quite that far gone to quite start slurring his words. Although, England suspected that he would be drunk enough to put up with the kids, France, and having the second-best gift soon.

France attempted to persist in making love to England's hand—much to America's amusement—before England promptly stood up, stalked** to the kitchen, poured himself another drink and went outside.

Coming to this damn party had been a horrible mistake, England reflected as he stared at a plank in the fence the kept the neighbors from simply frolicking in America's backyard. Honestly, he had half a mind to leave this mess right now.

_France _was here. Why the _bloody hell _was France here? Hawaii was _Japan's _child, not fucking France's. Which, meant that France shouldn't have even have been in the country to state the least. France should have been in his own fucking country. Ugh, the miserable frog.

Something heavy landed on both of his shoulders and he looked to his left to see whatever it was and then to his right. What he was met with was a large hand that was connected to an arm which, in turn, was connected to a rather tan man with blond hair, wearing a blue plaid shirt. England's mind registered that this _guy_ was bigger than America by an inch or so, and for whatever reason, that made England's eyes roll lazily. On the other side, it was rather much the same predicament except for the fact that the owner of the hand on his right shoulder was slightly shorter than Blue Plaid Guy, had green eyes, and slightly curly dirty blond hair that was being smashed to his forehead by a thin brown braided hairband. He was wearing shark teeth around his neck. And a wife beater. Oh, these two made England want to kick some teeth in. Ruffians and hooligans, the both of them.

"So, you're that dickhead that talked to me on the phone? The name's Texas, but you can call me Bertie. California here and some of the other guys were wondering if you'd like to play some football with us since you're back here already. And, plus, it'd be like, uh, gettin' accepted into the family." Texas drawled, smiling easily. California nodded slowly, smiling with heavily lidded eyes.

Oh, this California bloke must have been stoned off of his rocker because no one reacted that slowly to anything if they weren't as high as a bloody kite. Which was curious because California didn't quite smell like hemp. Or whatever those hippie kids were calling it these days.

"Acceptance?" England asked, staring down into the amber liquid taking space up in his cup. Acceptance, what an _odd _word.

"Yeah, man." California said, smiling, dimple shining through. The glint of something caught England's eye and he looked to see a diamond stud in California's right ear that was too large to be anything but real. Holy hell, when was the last time England had ever seen any piece of jewelry that big? Quickly, his mind went back to the conversation at hand.

"I need your acceptance like I need teeth in my arse." England growled, shrugging off their hands when he heard the door slide open behind them. He wasn't about to be peer pressured into a game of football by some macho states who thought they knew anything about his need for fucking acceptance. Which, mind you, they didn't. England didn't bloody need their acceptance.

"This is a Russian phrase, da. In Russian: Mnye etoh nadoh kahk zoobee v zadnetze."

Every drink of warm whiskey that England had taken went from boiling to a subarctic temperature in a space of two point five seconds.

Oh _piss _on_ him!_ _Russia _was invited to the fucking party? Was that even legal? Secondly, was it even safe to have a massive psychopath around small children? England quickly decided that, no, it wasn't.

"Hey, Ivan. Leon and I came out here to ask England if he wanted to play football. He was just making up his mind." Texas said, turning around partially to look at the large Russian that had just invaded the backyard.

"And what has England said?" Russia asked, childish smile practically tangible in his voice.

"He hasn't given us a fer sure answer, yet." California said, surprisingly quickly for someone who was high on the hemp.

"Fine! Fine! I'll bloody go ahead an' play your football. Afterwards, you guys have to stop bothering me." England decided, taking a step away from the two states and staring at them. He set about yanking his tie off and depositing it on the table along with his half-empty*** tumbler of whiskey. He unbuttoned the top few buttons and rolled up his sleeves up to his elbows.

"Alright, that's _boss_, England!" California said, grinning lazily and smacking his shoulder in a manner England supposed would have been friendly if it didn't feel like he had just had a ton of bricks smashed into his shoulder. Why, that little prick had hit him hard on purpose hadn't he?

"Hey Ivan, you're gonna be on England's team because he's gonna need the muscle, right?"

"I have no problems with being on England's team. We are prepared for the barbaric brutality that is expected in this American game. Right, England, da?" Russia said, looking completely different without that odd coat he usually had on. For whatever reason though, Russia still had that damn scarf on and England was going to make a comment about taking it off because he would have a damn stroke if he bloody well didn't, but he decided not to. Oddly enough, the scarf seemed to be an extension of the Russian man himself, so, England didn't push it.

"Yes, Russia. I am . . . ready. I think." England said, watching as California yelled something inside and people started to filter out. Eventually, it seemed that twenty or so people had filed out, talking loudly and, really, England had never in his _life_ seen so many blonds in one place. Everywhere he looked, there seemed to be a slash of tanned skin, a hint of power blue eyes, a pinch of sunny hair. It was rather confusing and then his eyes zeroed in on someone who looked very familiar.

_Those eyebrows. _There had to be at least three or four pairs of that distinguishing feature in the crowd and it was starting to make him feel bothered and somewhat jittery. It wasn't that he wasn't going to be pleased to see _his _children. After all, they were his children with America and that was a very, very _nice_, very, very _comforting_ thought because it was reminder to any other nation that England had been in America first. So, England was rather proud of his children because, really, wasn't every father proud of their child? Well, every good father, anyway. England made a mental note to himself to sit and talk with them.

"Alright, so, we got about 22 people. Yo, Florida, you gonna play, babe?" California asked, throwing an arm around the shorter state and grinning like the cat that had gotten the canary dipped in cream. Florida, for his part, looked mildly annoyed before he shrugged off California's rather substantial arm.

"First of all, I can't even say how much you shouldn't call me 'babe', _bro_. Two, no. Every time I _try_ to play you always try to put your hand down my pants, you creeper." Florida complained, rolling his eyes and moving away.

"I just want to make sure you have a, uhm, jockstrap on!" California said and by this point, England didn't even believe him. Apparently, none of the other states did according to the chorus of 'oh, yeah right's and 'I'm sure that's what you were doing's. England was going to make a comment but found that he didn't feel like reliving the entire Michigan-Minnesota scenario again so, the time around, he simply kept his mouth shut.

England felt that he should only have to go after states that directly tried to antagonize him. It would be easier that way. The nation wouldn't waste precious Bitching Energy on someone who wasn't trying to engage him in a verbal sparring match. It sounded like a bloody good plan to him.

"So, are we going to play the game or not? Because, honestly, if we aren't, I'm going back inside to have another drink." England said after a moment and every state's attention shifted toward England. England stared back at one of the boys who had his eyebrows and he simply kept staring until the boy glared and looked down at the grass. Even his own children seemed to dislike him. Apparently, the only bloody states that even mildly approved of him were Alaska and Minnesota and, while England was vaguely flattered by this, Ivan-Spawn didn't quite count because he was a baby and they couldn't really form solid opinions. Anybody who wore a diaper and considered drooling and chewing on wooden blocks fun wasn't opinion-forming material.

"Yeah, yeah. So, let's get this show on the road." Texas said, throwing his baseball cap to one side. The other states started, to some degree or another, taking off various articles of clothing that could potentially, under the right circumstances it seemed, become weapons of mass destruction. England noted that California removed his headband, necklace, and earring, handing them all to Florida with a charming smile which made Florida roll his eyes.

"Alright, so, here's how this thing is gonna go down," Texas said, throwing the oddly shaped ball up a few times and catching it in large hands. England sighed, feeling somewhat fidgety. Besides, the way Russia kept smiling and staring at him was making him quite anxious and annoyed. What? Was there something on his face? Besides his eyebrows, he meant.

"Arizona and Pennsylvania are gonna be the team captains. You two gotta pick ten people to be on your team, you know the rules. Whatever. 'Fore we start, I gotta point out that Old Man and Ivan are a packaged deal. So, if you pick Ivan, Old Man comes to." Texas announced, pointing at England as if to somehow illustrate and cement this point to his siblings.

"I don't want to be team captain." Arizona piped up and England turned to look at him incredulously. Why didn't this kid want to be the captain of his own team? He could see that Texas and Arizona were brothers because of their facial features and their general build but their hair was different. Where as Texas was blond like America, Arizona's hair was an odd shade of brown that was edging on black.

"Why, afraid I'll cream ya, Jules? _Again_." Pennsylvania said, cracking his neck and grinning. England watched this small display of sibling rivalry and wondered if this had something to do with this year's Super Bowl.

"No, Ad_am_. You cheat and I don't feel like playing against a cheater. Make Old Man the captain instead. It's easier that way." Arizona suggested, looking at England and then rolling his eyes. England's jaw practically detached from his skull as he regarded the dark-haired state. Arizona could _not _be serious.

"Are you _serious_?" England found himself saying, sputtering something. He felt his shoulders go numb but that could mainly be attributed to the fact that Russia's very large arm was resting uncomfortably on his shoulders. This entire idea was turning out to be simply horrible. They couldn't actually make him the captain, could they?

"Uh, yeah. Why wouldn't we be?" California said, quirking a manicured eyebrow and smiling.

"Fine. I'll be the captain. But if I'm going to be captain, I want all of you lined up, facing me. If I'm going to have a good team, I want to be able to make good decisions." England snapped before turning to give Russia a chilly look. Bloody Russian and his disregard for personal space.

* * *

And Japan's hair. It was a nice and fashionable cut that the man had had since for_ever_. It looked so smooth and smelled rather nice and England wouldn't have mind learning what shampoo Japan used for his hair. Is that why America had slept with Japan? Because of his hair? Bollocks, England's hair was very nice.

** It was rather more of a bob and weave motion. England always seemed to acquire this sort of general gait when he'd had three and half tumblers of whiskey in the space of forty-five minutes.

*** Things were always half-empty to England. Usually, it didn't matter is something was half-full _or _half-empty. It was the importance of what was actually _in _the glass that counted. It was half-empty if it was a cup of tea or whiskey. It was half-full if it was a cup of lead paint or arsenic because one always needed to be positive about those sorts of things.

* * *

Two hours into the match of football in the backyard, England found himself sweating profusely, covered in grass and dirt stains and with a very curious pain in his lower back. He could practically feel bruises forming on his ass from being laid out flat on the ground so many times. He feared for the wholeness of his lungs and spine from having the wind knocked out of him so many times. Surprisingly enough, England was rather enjoying himself.

In the process of running toward what they had decided the opposite team's end zone, England had been tackled more times that he had cared to count. Two in particular stood out in his mind. One time involved being tackled from behind by California and Texas, who had wrapped their arms around his waist. That's when England's face became intimate friends with America's bloody well-groomed lawn. Fortunately for his face*, the only damage he received was a mouthful of grass and dirt. The second time, England was rather sure that Minnesota and Michigan had gotten football confused with hockey because he was positive that the two brothers had body checked him. That was really the only term that England could use to describe the injustice that was done to his upper torso by having two sharp elbows embed themselves simultaneously into his sides. It had knocked the wind out of him and he could feel two identical bruises blooming on his ribs.

But now, with only a few minutes left in the game—this was due to America saying that the food was almost ready and that they should hurry it up if they wanted to get any—and England was staring at Russia's behind and wondering if he was going to have a heatstroke anytime soon from keeping that damn scarf on. England, who had been declared the quarterback by Iowa at the start of the game, snapped back to attention when he heard 'hike' in heavily accented English. Catching the ball flawlessly, he tossed the ball to Wisconsin who caught it and began to run. England took off, looking like a cheetah on speed, easily avoiding a tackle for Michigan, who seemed to have it out for him. Wisconsin shouted England's name and England turned around just in time to catch the damned ball that was heading his way. Tucking his chin into his chest, England continued running, making eye contact with California, who sprinted toward him.

Dully, his mind registered that there was something of a crowd forming on the back porch, watching them as they played. He could hear Canada shouting and cursing aggressively, which was odd, and France trying to placate him. He also caught ear of America screaming 'go, England, go'. It made him feel proud and he was bloody determined to score a touchdown now. Currently, the two teams were at a draw and England knew that he could successfully make this touchdown. Plus, he would be able to show off to America, who loved this putrid game.

"Oh no you don't, you hemp _bastard_." England muttered, smashing his elbow into California's localized jaw region. There was a crack and a shout of pain that may have been a fusion between 'fuck' and 'oh shit' as California tumbled to the ground, some blood trickling from what, England was proud to say, was a split lip. Behind him, England heard shouting that was becoming horridly distracting.

He could hear grunting and noises of pain from behind him as well and, suddenly, he felt something grab at the tail of his dress shirt which had somehow managed to be untucked during the game. Quickly peering behind his shoulder, he caught sight of Texas clinging to his shirt tail and grinning like a mad man. It was mental if this halfwit thought that he was going to best England by clinging to him, surely, he had another bloody thing coming his way.

England had always been very calm under pressure and he was absolutely flawless at quick thinking. So, he did the only thing that he could think of to shake Texas off of him. In a rare show of flexibility, England pushed his leg backwards, kicking Texas squarely in the chest. With a winded 'oof' Texas let go of his shirt and England, grinning like he hadn't since defeating the Spanish Armada, slammed the ball into the grass of the other team's end zone, practically howling in victory. Behind him, Pennsylvania skidded to a halt, groaning in defeat. England, still grinning rakishly, turned around and found that he was in the mood for gloating.

" Oh, _bugger! _What are you going to do _now_, eh? Who made the final touchdown? _Who_? An _Englishman_, that's _who_! Oh, I bet you're _sorry_ for baiting me _now_, hm? Yes, I kicked your arses into the ground! Don't _ever_ underestimate me _again_, lad. I will whoop your ass a second time. Gladly!" England shouted, middle fingers flashing in the other team's face. Cackling maniacally and with the thrill of victory running through him, England confidently walked over to America and dragged him down to steal an epic victory kiss** that consisted of much saliva, a rather large amount of teeth clanking together jarringly, and the air in America's lungs suddenly leaving him as he deepened the kiss and wrapped his arms 'round England's waist.

The air around them fell silent and became charged with something that no one could readily identify***. Suddenly, the sound barrier around them broke and England could faintly make out cat calls and wolf whistles, as well as grunts and groans of disgust. England, finding that he still needed to breathe, pulled away from America, grinning like there was simply no tomorrow. America looked decidedly dazed.

England would have like to see those little states now. Surely, they were humbled after having been beaten at their own game by the person they strived to knock down and away. Not only that, it was England that had crushed them and England would readily admit that he wouldn't mind doing it again. Plus, kissing their dad in front of them was a big 'sod off' to them because he was basically saying that he wouldn't be going anywhere anytime soon. As an added bonus, he was giving the proverbial middle finger to France and proving that he wasn't a repressed prude.

Clearing his throat, England removed himself. Still smirking he opened the door to the house, relishing the cool feel of the air-conditioning on his sweaty and hot skin. Behind him, the other nations shuffled in. France slapped England cordially on the shoulder.

"_Tant de passion, Angleterre_!" France cried, looking rather stunned and smug at the same time.

Outside, some of the more winded states were picking themselves off the ground. California and Texas in particular, looked terrible. Blood was trickling from California's lip and nose and the beginnings of a black eye could be seen on the left side of Texas' face.

"Hey, Leon." Texas said, looking at California and noting that his nose was bloodied.

"Jesus Christ, I think he spilt my lip, bro." California said, ignoring Texas calling him. Maybe he could get Florida to kiss it and make it better.

"What was your first clue?" Florida said snidely, throwing California's accessories to him and turning on his heel and practically bounding into the house.

"Well, I think he's swell." Tennessee drawled, smiling.

"You didn't get beaten up by him, Jackson." California exclaimed, watching as Florida retreated into the house with a rather crestfallen look on his face.

"Yeah, and he's your dad." Texas reminded, cracking his neck.

"Whatever. If he can beat us at football, he's fine with me. Plus, Mom seemed to really be digging that kiss thing. Which was so totally boss." California said, slipping his earring back on.

"Leon." Texas said, glaring at California who looked up at his name.

"Yeah?" California responded, quirking an eyebrow as he slipped his headband back on.

"Shut the fuck up." Texas said, rolling his eyes and smashing his baseball cap back on his head with a frustrated expression on his face.

* * *

* But not so fortuitous for his mouth.

* * *

**TBC **

* * *

**A/N: Remember to leave a suggestion about how you think England and the states should face off next. Leave a review? And, have a good day/night.**

** To many of the states, it looked as if England were trying to consume America's entire face in one sitting. Poor Massachusetts looked as if he was going to pass out from watching his parents kiss. He was _so_ going to need therapy.

*** If you asked the states, they thought it was mutual disgust due to watching their dad eat face with a redcoat. Japan thought it was simply static electricity. Canada and France both found it to be a sort of strong sexual energy. Spain thought it was a foreboding sense of passion that threatened to bubble over at any given moment. Russia just thought it was funny.


	5. On How To Properly Avoid Mental Scarring

**A/N: Alrighty, I don't really have anything to say about this one. Oh, well, other than the fact that it's going to be a three part chapter. This one doesn't really have much England versus State but, hey, there are other downsides to dating someone who has lots of children, I suppose. So, enjoy it and, if you're in the mood, leave me a review if you want to! Happy reading!**

**p.s. I'm sorry! I went a little crazy with the footnotes this time. I'm sorry! I just really love the footnotes! By the way, guys, thanks so much for all the wonderful suggestions! I'm taking them all into consideration!**

* * *

Sometimes, England thought he was insane. It had nothing to do with his fairies or unicorns or any other sort of fantastic creature that he could see. And, really, he _could _see them. Actually, it had something to do with masochistic streak that he suddenly seemed to have developed in the course of about four months. The masochistic streak that had driven him to accept an invitation to celebrate Thanksgiving with America and some of the original colonies. England had wanted to say no because Thanksgiving was an annoying holiday that wasn't exactly his cup of tea. Initially, England had actually said no but then America had started to whine.

"You never come over for the Fourth, at least come over for Thanksgiving! Please, please, _please_! It'll be awesome, I promise! It'll be more than awesome! It'll be wicked awesome in its _to_tal bossness! Please say yes, _please_!" America had said, sounding like he was going to have a conniption if England hadn't said yes quickly. So, to prevent America's early demise due to some sort of aneurysm or hysterical seizure, he had said yes.

Which is why he found himself currently staring out of a taxicab's window heading away from the airport in Boston. His head hurt from jetlag and that served to sour his mood* even more. He watched as a couple, all bundled up in giant coats and scarves, waddled into a coffee shop and felt his nose wrinkle in disgust.

Coffee, for all England cared, was a sort of lukewarm sludge that trailed down one's throat and ruined the lining of the stomach. Frankly, he didn't give a damn that America was practically _in love_ with the stuff. England would have chosen his beloved Earl Gray brew over the horrid, horrid excuse of caffeine that America regularly ingested in a heartbeat. Sluggishly and fighting to keep his headache at bay, England attempted to make conversation with the taxi driver.

"So, have you lived in Boston long?" England said lightly, trying to sound friendly even though his tone was very terse and almost strained.

"Yeah, I've been living here my whole life." The cabbie said, locking eyes with England through the rear-view mirror. Blue eyes stared back at him but not the right kind of blue to evoke a longing and keening reaction from England. The cabbie was thin, too thin, and England thought that maybe it had something to do with the fact that the man was smoking. After all, smoking did decrease one's appetite and maybe that was why this young man was so thin. The cabbie's blond hair (but that wasn't the right kind of blond, either) was threatening to become a bit too long if it was left unattended for a week or so.

"That's nice. Is Boston all they say?" England said, knowing that the combination of him being in Boston was just asking for some sort of trouble. Wasn't it enough that every year on the Fourth of July he had to distance himself from everyone else because he was an emotional mess? It wasn't even _near_ July but England felt something dark winding tight in the pit of his stomach.

"I guess. The weather's nice, really. Although, once you've lived here for a while, there really isn't anything very exciting about it anymore. Great city, great people, but be happy you're not from around here." The cabbie said, smiling wistfully.

"Believe me, I wouldn't have come here if I wanted to." England responded, feeling the throbbing in his temples. If it didn't stop soon, he was going to have to take drastic measures**.

"So, you here for Thanksgiving?"

"Yes." England returned, voice still clipped and tight. This headache was driving him bloody mental and he didn't really know what to do about it. He would have to wait to get some sort of painkiller. Oh, why was it that he handled jet lag so terribly? Why couldn't he be like France, who seemed to be perfectly immune to it? It bothered him that it was this same effect every time he had to fly anywhere. Although, one would have expected that England would have been perfectly used to it by now and that he would have learned to carry a small bottle of pain pills.

"Got any family in the area?" The cabbie asked and England simply let his eyes slide shut. Maybe closing his eyes would help the headache. Hadn't he heard somewhere that people with headaches were particularly sensitive to light? Yes, he was quite sure that he had heard that somewhere. Perhaps he had read it on the back of a tea box.

"Children." England responded, finding that having closed his eyes had eased the pressure behind his eyelids slightly.

"How many?"

"A lot." England said, a wry smile on his face. It was no lie, which was good in and of itself because England had always valued honesty among other things***. Thinking on it, he smiled fondly. Every colony had been such a gift and then came that blasted Revolution, fucking things up for everyone. He could have had a perfectly happy family had America not been so fixated on taxes and that silly talk of Enlightenment ideals.

"Oh. If you don't mind my asking, sir, are you divorced?" The cabbie asked and England's eyes jolted open. Could he respond to that with a 'yes' because, technically, he and America hadn't really been married. Then again, they had lived together at one point or another and they had children together. For the love of bleeding heaven, they had been domestic. So, yes. While they hadn't been _really _married, England supposed that they had been, actually. Oh, he was too fucking tired to be dealing with something like this.

"It's a bit bold of you to ask such a personal question, don't you think? But, yes. I am. We're seeing each other again, which is nice." England responded, small smile on his face. Quickly, to cover it up, he pretended to cough and shield his growing smile with his gloved hand. England noticed that all the moodiness that he had been feeling seemed to disappear when he had spoken this comment. He relaxed somewhat, massaging his temple and noticing that they weren't too far from his destination.

"Sorry for being so bold, sir. But, uh, where are you from?" Cabbie asked, turning onto a busy street with people crossing this way and that, looking rather affronted by the cold. Children ran on the sidewalk, almost skidding on slick patches of water that had become ice, old women sat on the benches, talking to one another and reminiscing about sending their husbands letters during the second World War. The everyday people going about their life brought another small smile to England's lips. He caught sight of the apartment complex where Massachusetts' apartment was. It was so normal and so charming that it made him want to rip his hair out and gouge his eyes.

"From London, in England." He said, as if the boy would somehow manage to confuse his accent for the London in some _other_ country. "Thank you, sir. I enjoyed our short conversation but I'm going to be getting out here, if you don't mind." England commented, reaching into the pocket of his trench coat to take out his wallet. He took out the money that he needed to pay this young man who looked like he would use it buy either more hats or more cigarettes or perhaps something else. Clothes, perhaps, because God knew that the poor boy needed it.

England got out of the cab, suitcase in one hand and the other rifling through his pockets, trying to find a damn pocket for his wallet, which had decided that it was going to be difficult. Cursing, he put his suitcase down on the sidewalk, finally putting the sodding thing in the right pocket. Giving a heavy sigh, England picked up his suitcase and stopping at the foot of the stairs. He considered getting out his cell phone to call Massachusetts and asking for help but, really, he would be damned if he was going to ask for help navigating an American apartment complex. Honestly, it couldn't have been so hard. He had plenty of experience in navigating and so he began climbing the large flight of stairs in front of him.

Stair after stair after stair and all England could think was that it was freezing and that he had been through winters far worse than this, so, really, he shouldn't have minded very much. At least the sun was shining in Boston. In England, the sunlight had to claw its way through the clouds to even come through the tiniest bit. England was sure that the sun must have been very distraught about it. Again, England paused, reaching into another pocket to draw out a small slip of paper with the apartment number on it. He really was getting bloody tired of bending to every whim that America had. Plus, it was leaving him a very sexually frustrated man and that was never good because it put him in even worse mood.

Finally, after climbing the stairs for what seemed like an hour but in reality was only a few bloody minutes of lower leg abuse, he reached the door number. It was a very nice door, considering that this was an apartment. Quickly, England wasted no time smashing his gloved hand against the nicely finished wood of the door. This must have been an oddly expensive apartment if the _door _was made of out of polished _wood. _His second thought was if America had purchased this or if Massachusetts had. From beyond the door, there was the sound of horribly loud barking that made England's ear pulse in protest. Oh, England could already bloody tell that by the end of this trip he was going to be owning several human pelts that he would later be forced to sell to some cannibal on the black market.

"Wait a minute!" A voice from the other side of the door shouted and England rolled his eyes. Of course he would wait the minute but he was freezing his arse off and he would have greatly appreciated if whoever was on the other side of the door didn't take their bloody good time. There was some activities that one did slowly so that they could be enjoyed, like drinking tea and having sex (except, one didn't go slow all the time, that would have just been boring) but, amazingly, opening a door wasn't one of them.

There was the sound of one or two locks being undone and then a green eye was staring at him and, pleasingly, there was a thick eyebrow on top of that eye. Ah, dear Massachusetts was the same way he remembered him. Looking rather like America but undeniably looking like England in his eyes and, well, the eyebrows. America and Massachusetts were practically carbon copies of one another, except Massachusetts had always chosen to avoid glasses.

"Hey, Dad. Gimme a sec." Massachusetts said and, once again, the bloody door was being shut on him. From the other side, England could hear Massachusetts cursing and trying to restrain what must have been a rather large dog. He heard America's voice and few chuckles. The door opened a short moment later with Massachusetts smiling a large grin that was all America and not an ounce of England. England smiled fondly, or, well, what England perceived as fondly, to America and Massachusetts it looked like England was having an adverse reaction to spoiled milk. That may or may not have been due to the fact that England's face had a somewhat cross look about it.

America and Massachusetts simply stared at him, looking oddly identical and concerned and England had to wonder if perhaps a pigeon had relieved itself on his shoulder. England found himself hoping, very desperately so, that that wasn't the case because if a pigeon had taken certain liberties that pertained to relieving itself on his shoulder, he was going to call in the sodding hounds and the foxes because he would be organizing a very entertaining pigeon hunt.

America, after a moment of looking like his brain had trickled out of his ear, seemed to notice that England was still standing in the cold. Massachusetts, on the other hand, was holding onto the collar of a Boston terrier. It struck England as infinitely ridiculous and he had to bite the inside of his cheek to keep from saying anything. And the horrid things he wanted to say. Things that involved Boston, "tea parties", and harbors. How perfectly _stupid_ it was to have a fucking dog named after the _sodding _city you lived in. Bloody Yankees and their stupid sense of sodding humor. _Good God_.

"Are you going to let me in or not? Because if you bloody well aren't, I'm going to leave. It's freezing out here and I would greatly appreciate it if you would just move aside so that I could get in." England snapped, feeling completely miserable.

Massachusetts and America both seemed to come back to reality when they heard England start to speak. Recognition of something being said seemed to crawl into their eyes and, once again, England had to hold back a snide comment about stupid American cows and the little sense they had.

Another few seconds passed by and the American Border Patrol that was currently taking up residence in Massachusetts' door jamb looked at him blankly. Oh, piss on him, were they going to move or not? He loved America, _really_, he _did _but that didn't stop the fact that sometimes the boy was beyond stupid and Massachusetts, who had been such a _smart_ young man, seemed to have inherited America's almost sluggish intellect.

Suddenly, as if spurred by some other worldly power, the two blonds moved aside and the dog began barking. Massachusetts looked down at the yapping dog and smiled fondly. America smiled and stepped into the cold, grabbing England's suitcase from him and, _oh_, bless his dear heart, taking it inside. England finally stepped inside, shedding his trench coat after having a small battle (in which he called the tie a bastard and the son of a whore) with the tie on it. Massachusetts regarded him with something akin to either disgust or sympathy. England quite hoped that it was disgust because, _really_, he didn't need sympathy from anybody.

"Samuel, do you happen to have coat rack?" England said, horrid headache still pounding away at the inside of his cranium like it just wanted to spite him. It wouldn't have surprised him if that's what this blasted headache was doing because that was just the nature of his luck. Bad things always seemed to happen and it had only served to make England even more of a cynic.

"Oh, nah, you don't have to worry about that, Pop. You can just throw it in your room with the rest of you and Dad's stuff." Massachusetts said, finally setting his dog down. Upon being let down, the dog immediately raced over to England and began sniffing his shoes. England looked at the dog with a look of mild irritation on his face. But, holy hell, this headache was just getting worse and worse it seemed like.

"Oh, your father and I are sharing the same room?" England asked, some trepidation leaking into his voice. This was a very good thing and a very bad thing at the same time. It was pleasant because he would be in the same bed as America and that hadn't happened for decades. It was a bad thing because he would be in the same bed as America and _that_ hadn't happened for decades. Meaning that, while he was happy to be sharing close quarters with the younger nation, it still meant that he had to behave like a gentleman. The only bad thing was that there was just something about America that possessed him to forget how a gentleman behaved himself. It was also mildly disconcerting because England could already feel the sexual frustration creeping up his back and America was even in the room. Oh, this was going to be sodding fun, wasn't it?

"It's not a problem, right?" Massachusetts asked, taking England's coat and hanging it on the back of an impressive chair.

"Oh, no. No, not at all, my dear. I just. . ." _can't be sure that I won't fuck your father raw and through your mattress. _England thought, leaving the comment unfinished. As if it the pain in his skull were on cue, a particularly sharp throb of pain resounded and it made England nearly whine in pain.

"Do you happen to have any pain medicine? Something for a headache, perhaps? I'm having a rather dreadful one right now." England said, straightening his tie and clearing his throat. For whatever reason it seemed that England couldn't quite make eye contact with Massachusetts. It probably had something to do with a little war that started in 1775. Then again, it may have just been the sheer awkwardness of the situation because America wasn't in the room.

"Would Tylenol be alright? And, hey, you want coffee with that?" Massachusetts asked, going into the kitchen and beginning to rifle around in the cabinets, looking for the medicine bottle. Meanwhile, England's foot had gone from being sniffed by the black and white dog, to having his leg ferociously rutted against. Awkwardly, England wondered if he should say something to his son or, perhaps, to the dog who seemed to have become rather infatuated with his leg. Clearing his throat, he flailed his leg surreptitiously, hoping that the action went unnoticed because he didn't want to have to kick a poor dog even if it was confusing his leg for a potential fuck buddy.

"Tylenol is fine, Samuel. Ah, do you have any tea?" England asked, still trying to free his leg from the current onslaught it was under. At this moment, his son chose to turn around and caught sight of his dog.

"_Cranberry! _Get offa him!" Massachusetts howled, bustling into the hallway and clapping his hands. The dog, looking rather put out, waddled away, looking over it's shoulder as if to call England a cock tease.

"Sorry about him, he's kinda weird sometimes. He does it to Dad, too. It's weird, he only likes blond people." Massachusetts said, returning to the kitchen and looking over his shoulder at England. "Sorry, but what was it that you wanted? Other than the Tylenol, I mean."

"Oh, uhm, tea."

"Ah, shit. No, I don't have any. I can't believe I forgot to buy any. Here, why don't you stay here with Dad and I'll run out real quick and buy some. I mean, seriously, I know you can't live without it. Jesus H. Christ, I even wrote it down on the grocery list and I _still _forgot. Augh, I'm sorry." Massachusetts said, finally taking out the bottle of Tylenol and shaking two of the perfect little white pills into his palm.

"No need to be distraught, my lad." England comforted, finally taking note of that fact that America was coming out of what he supposed was the guest room.

"What do ya mean 'no need' to be 'distraught'. Jesus on a tricycle! Why don't I just go pick some up for ya? You should probably come too since I don't know what kind you like." Massachusetts reasoned, guilty smile on his face. England rolled his eyes somewhat and looked at his son.

"Well, that sounds smashing because, really, caffeine is going to make my headache _so_much better." England said dryly. Really, his son didn't have to go through all this trouble for him. Then again, if his son left America alone with him, England could not readily guarantee that there wouldn't be a fifty-first state soon. England honestly didn't understand why he was so bloody attracted to America and why the tiniest movement seemed to be the most salacious thing England had ever seen. He knew it bloody well wasn't normal but, _really_, he couldn't quite stop himself.

"Still, you'll probably want some tomorrow in the morning." Massachusetts said, capping the bottle and putting it back in the cupboard unlike America who, whenever England asked for something, just left things strewn about.

"Alright. Just tell your father we're going and we'll be off. You don't mind if I help myself to some water, correct?" England asked, feeling oddly distanced from a child that he hadn't seen in such a long time. It left him with that same unsettling feeling in the pit of his stomach. Oh, he needed to just get this over with.

"You wanna say hello to 'im first?" Massachusetts asked, leaning on the counter and setting the two pills aside.

"Of course. Why wouldn't I?" England asked, wondering where America had gone off to. He wasn't about to navigating a house that he'd never been in before. True, his navigational skills were far superior to those of, say, America who didn't know his Georgia from the other Georgia. Poor thing.

"Well, here, lemme show you around so that you can get a feel for the place." Massachusetts said, smiling and grabbing England by his wrist and walking him over to a spacious living room.

After fifteen minutes of being towed around a rather large and, England was surprised to say this, tastefully decorated apartment, Massachusetts allowed him to go find America. England, deciding that America was most likely in the guest room, knocked twice on the door as warning before opening the door and stopping in his tracks, his breath caught in his throat.

Jolly good timing. Truly _wonderful _timing.

Splayed out on the bed was what America had been wearing earlier. Massachusetts had said that the guest room had its own bathroom and England, really, couldn't have been happier. Standing, right there, in the middle of the room, really, he was _right_ there, surrounded by steam was America. Gloriously naked and tan and, for the glory of God, toweling himself off. Looking perfectly delectable with that nearly godly broad build of his, England felt his mouth go dry. Suddenly, England's headache disappeared and another problem had, ahem, come up, so to speak.

If England had been doubting his physical attraction to America, any doubt was immediately dispelled because, well _damn_, it was no wonder why so many people had colonized all over America's ass. He was barely holding himself back even now. He felt the tell-tale heat closing in on his face and it wasn't because he was embarrassed.

Hurriedly, England closed the door behind him, knowing that Massachusetts was just outside in the hall, trying to find his keys.

"Why're you looking at me like that? You've seen me naked _tons_ of times. You're not feeling shy, right?" America asked as he grinned that positively gorgeous grin, about as dense as a piece of steel. England really would have liked to hit him to knock some sense into him but thinking about hitting America sent him off on an entire different mental tangent that involved silk ties and the round table.

Not trusting his voice, England simply shook his head from side to side. No, he wasn't feeling shy. However, what he _was_ feeling was that his trousers were suddenly two sizes too snug on his groin area. Uncomfortably and on instinct, England's hands raced down to cover the poor area subjected to watching America, in all his hot-blooded, tan, beautiful glory. How the bloody hell was he going to deal with this.

His mind provided him with two different ways.

Plan A was to walk away right now and simply say that Massachusetts was taking him to the grocery store (or super mahket, as Massachusetts referred to it) to go buy some tea and that they were going to be right back, really. Plan B was a lot less complicated and didn't require very much thought on his part. Plan B involved simply going up to America and kissing him until they couldn't figure out which way was up and which way was down because of oxygen deprivation.

The small annoying voice in his head was screaming that he had to be a gentleman about this or his honor would be completely ruined. That sodding little voice had been good for some many things but every time that he had been faced with something that involved America (loving him, kissing him, fucking him, fighting him) it always seemed to give rather horrible advice. Well, it wasn't that in essence it was terrible. It was just that England hadn't ever really been able to follow its directions very well.

All those years ago when America had said "I'm ready, I'm ready. I want you to take me. Do it, do it, do it!", the little voice had said 'walk away right now, Arthur, and you won't have to be roped into anything messy'. He had tried, really and truly he had, but it was _America_and, well, the advice went unheeded. Nine months later, America and England had their hands full with a little blonde girl with the sweetest smile that England declared Virginia and they named Elizabeth.

America took a few steps forward, looking down and grinning in a cocky manner. England swallowed and took a step forward as well, pressing them flush against each other.

America dipped his head somewhat and England practically lost it at that simple action. Really now, here he was in his son's apartment, acting like a bloody teenager who was too hormonal to properly function. England, feeling extremely frustrated all of a sudden, smashed their lips together, wrapping his arms around America's neck. America hummed happily, wrapping his somewhat clammy arms around England's waist, deepening the kiss. They somehow ended up with the back of England's knees smacking into the plush corner of the bed. England took the hint, thank you very much, and scooted backwards, trying to work off his sweater vest and tie at the same time and finding himself failing miserably. America, ever the hero, decided that he was going to help by working at the buttons on England's trousers.

Together, the managed to work off England's vest and America helpfully tore at the buttons of his shirt, sending them flying this way and that. bugger, that shirt was beyond ruined and he had paid _such _good money for that shirt. But, in the game of love, if getting a single shirt torn to shreds meant getting a leg-over with Alfred then he would have ripped apart twenty shirts or more. Gladly and without any hesitation on his part. In the back of his mind, he tried to do the math on how long it had been since he had really touched Alfred. In all true honesty, touched America and made him whine and groan and beg. His mind groped for the answer in his foggy brain and,_ oh. _America had found his collar bone and was doing the most deliciously sensual things with his tongue and all England could do was sit up and moan like an idiot, pulling on the straw colored hair balled up in his fist.

Men, on a certain level, will cease to think when exposed to enough stimulation. Whether this stimulation is mental or physical, it doesn't really matter. Although, it has been proven that men react in a particularly positive manner to stimulation of the physical kind. Especially so, if this stimulation comes from another source that isn't, say, a hand that happens to belong to the man in question. Presently, exposed to all the stimulation that he had been craving, England couldn't even have passed the most rudimentary of history tests on the British Empire.

America, oh dear sweet beautiful Alfred, had worked his way down to sucking on his ribs, biting softly, laughing all the while as if he knew some horridly funny joke that England hadn't been privy to. He didn't even bloody well care if America was making fun of the _Queen_ at the moment. America could have been spitting on Churchill's grave and England wouldn't have given a damn because, sweet _Christ_, America could do whatever he bloody well wanted if he didn't stop doing that marvelous thing he was doing with his tongue on the sensitive skin of his waist.

America, staring up at him with a wicked smile on his face (looking years younger without those bloody sodding glasses on his face), worked off the corduroy pants that England was wearing, along with his undergarments off as well. Kissing his way down his stomach, England's chest heaving the entire way, America nipped at his hip bones, humming some song or another as England writhed and thrashed above him. By _God, _America simply had him arse over tit with this entire foreplay business. He was literally two seconds away from saying "are you quite done pussyfooting around that matter at hand, hm".

Agony. It was pure broken ecstasy and divine agony that filled him to his core and, if he were to be honest, he couldn't even _fathom_ thinking of England at the moment. He couldn't think of his beautiful country when America was practically sucking him off. Although, he wasn't quite, not really. America was just sort of hovering, two scant centimeters from popping England's prick in his mouth and going to work on it like an ice lolly in the middle of a particularly hot day in dreadfully hot region.

In retrospect, England wasn't sure if not locking the door had been a good idea on his part. Because it was one thing to walk in on your parents having an argument about high taxes on tea and unfair representation or lack thereof but it was quite another thing all together to walk in on your Dad taking your Father's pants off and the other one cursing in an array of colorful British slang. The worst thing about the situation**** was that all Massachusetts had wanted to say was that he had found his keys and that he was ready to go.

England took a cold shower after that, his face burning with mortification this time.

He would have to write this down in a journal somewhere because some other poor soul might have appreciated the advice. He made a mental note to never be around a naked America if it meant being interrupted by their children. It was simply too high a cost to pay and England wasn't sure he had really wanted to sleep with America at that precise moment anyway*****.

* * *

*England's default mood was mildly irritated. When his mood became worse, it did so in various degrees of irritated. Currently, his mood was hanging between rather irritated and pissed off.

**By drastic measures, England meant taking Tylenol or aspirin and then refraining from drinking tea for three or more hours. That was more than drastic. _That_ was deprivation.

***These other things included Earl Gray tea, whiskey, butler and angel outfits, and, on some rare occasions, brown paper packages tied up with string.

****Other than getting an eyeful of his parents two or three minutes away from really getting into it and going at it on a quilt that had been given to him by Martha Washington, of course.

*****Actually, England had wanted America to fuck him so hard that he wouldn't have been able to walk even if he wanted to. England had just spent years building up a solid line of denial and, really, he was quite good at denying himself things that he wanted. Exceptional at it, really.

* * *

**TBC**

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**A/N: Thank you so much for reading this. Like I said before, this one is more of a three part chapter and it may take some time to get the entire thing up sincce I'll be pretty busy this week but for your sakes, my chickies, I'm going to try! Thanks for reading, hope you enjoyed it and leave me a review?**

**p.s. next chapter involves an awkward conversation between England and Massachusetts and the chapter after that introduces the original thirteen colonies. You'll just have to wait for those two, though.**


	6. On The Proper Manner Of Parenting

**A/N: Seriously, I had such a hard time writing this chapter just because I know _nothing_ about Boston or Massachusetts. Like, at all. So, yeah, I'm sorry. But, enjoy it anyway!**

* * *

The car ride over was going to be bloody awkward for the both of them. England had always been _so_ careful to avoid anything like this happening. Even when the thirteen colonies had been nothing but mere children, he and America had taken immense pains to be particularly quiet and discreet whenever it came to things of the romantic nature. What the hell was he supposed to say now? Centuries of creeping about without the knowledge of his children had shown him that he wouldn't ever have to deal with something like this. Sadly, maybe having been through this before would have been a benefit to him now that England really thought about it.

How did one deal with a child who had walked in on you? England's mind and the annoying little voice attempted to make him feel as if his dignity hadn't been dragged around on the floor of the guest bedroom about forty-five minutes ago. Staring out the window, England's mind went about trying to develop strategic manners of not only dealing with his son's need for therapy but also England's own need for comfort and ways of dealing with his own humiliation.

Suddenly, England was quite reminded why he detested America's personality sometimes. The boy didn't really think at all and on the rare occasions when he did actually think, it was all so blissfully ridiculous or destructive that it couldn't be considered thinking as much as it could be considered endangerment to himself or the human species. Moreover, he was headstrong and stubborn and all around a difficult person to be with. This wasn't mentioning the fact that America had a knack for shoving his nose into other people's business when it was fully unwanted. That _and_ America could be perfectly childish sometimes.

Yet, England was completely arse over tit in love with the boy. Sometimes, England's luck really and truly astounded him. At least this time around with America, England knew where he stood*. Even with all this musing going on in his head, England _still _didn't know what to say to his son. Taking a few deep breaths to calm his heart down, England cleared his throat to get Massachusetts' attention and then, with some small amount of knowing what he was doing, began.

"Samuel, I'm sorry." England began lamely because, _really_, he didn't know what to sodding say.

"Uh, it's okay. I mean, I guess." Massachusetts said, flushing somewhat. He didn't bother looking at England, seeing as he was driving**. It was nice that Massachusetts kept his eyes on the road and the car that they were in wasn't going to explode randomly.

"No, my lad, it isn't okay at all." England pursued, determined to have his way in this passive confrontation. By God and the Queen, he was going to fucking apologize even if Massachusetts was dead set on not hearing it. He was going to regain his dignity by looking like the more responsible parent even if it killed him.

"No, Pop. I mean, seriously. It's happened before." Massachusetts said, glancing at the rearview mirror and running a hand through his hair and sighing heavily.

What the bloody hell did that mean? 'It's happened before'? What the devil had happened that was similar to his current situation? Surely, America had been prudent enough after they had separated to keep his children's eye safe from open displays of sexual behavior.

"_What_? What exactly do you _mean _by that, Samuel?" England asked, his face falling into a very odd expression. His brows furrowed, he narrowed his eyes, and his mouth was set into a very thin line. It was the expression that England adopted when he was feeling threatened or very annoyed due to something involving France***.

"Seriously? Jesus—" Massachusetts said, dragging out his words slowly. The state chewed on his lower lip, looking slightly worried and then resigned and, _really_, England just wished he would hurry the fuck up and just come out with it already. He didn't have time to be playing games like this with his son. Actually, he _did_ have the time but he didn't feel like having crucial information kept from him that may or may not have helped him regain his status as a gentleman and a good father.

"Massachusetts, what do you mean that is has happened before? Please, dear, don't make me ask again." England said, rubbing at the bridge of his nose.

"Alright, fine. But, hey, if you're gonna throw up don't freaking blame it on me, okay?" Massachusetts snapped back, sighing profoundly as they pulled up to a red light and Massachusetts' car practically became acquainted with the back of the car in front of them.

"Whatever it is, it can't _possibly _be that terrible."

"You have _no_ idea." Massachusetts responded, angling himself so that he could look at his parent better. In all honesty, the only thing stopping England from smacking the back of his son's head was a pure sense of self-restraint**** that had taken _centuries_ to build up. If Massachusetts didn't come right out and say it soon, England was going to buy a thick length of rope and fuck America all night in the boy's living room in revenge.

"Bloody say it, damn you." England snapped, rubbing once again at his temples.

"Fine! Jesus, Mary, and Joseph! Okay, so, well, way back when in 1790— I even remember the day and everything, but I won't bother you with that stuff; it's pointless anyway—I had just come back from chilling out with Alex Hamilton, right? So, I walk in to Dad's house because, well, I just wanted to visit with him, see if he was okay, the normal stuff you do when you check up on your parent, or whatever. So, I'm walking around his house, looking for 'im and, well, I couldn't find him. So, I figure, hey, maybe he's out back in the yard. I went, couldn't find him so, I said, well maybe he's in his room! It sounded reasonable to me, so, I went over to his room and I tried opening his door. At first, I thought maybe it was jammed because the door wasn't opening for whatever reason. Then, from the other side of the door, I hear Dad hollering and carrying on like there's someone in there trying to fuck his shit up or something." Here Massachusetts took a pause and a deep breath, looking very pale suddenly. England rolled his eyes and found that he was chewing on his lower lip, a nervous and detestable habit that the Briton had picked up during World War II.

"Go on, boy." England coaxed, a tad sorry for having pressured and practically bullied his own son into telling him this. For God's sake, the poor boy had been exposed to enough mental scarring to fill an informative and rather substantial pamphlet entitled _On the Dangers of Opening Closed Doors Without Knocking First._

Massachusetts cleared his throat, averting his eyes to stare down at his sneakers.

"Right, so, the door won't open and, eventually, I just kicked it down. I mean, I should have known that–I mean, seriously, you'd think that they would have stopped when they heard me banging on the door, or something. But, nope. So, I walked in on Dad and France. It was weird because Dad made this weird noise when he saw me, and he sort of flailed a bit and kicked France off, who hadn't really noticed anything. I mean, here he was balls-deep in Dad, and I was standing there and he didn't even think I was there so, really, you can't blame the guy, not really."

"_Who_ did you say was with him?" England managed to say, feeling bile and breakfast working its way up his throat in a merry manner that said: _Hello, dear! Long time, no see! We're just going to make you throw up now! _It _sounded_ like Massachusetts had said _France_. Really, England wasn't stupid and he knew that France and America had children together. He wasn't blind and he accepted it after having had to practically deal with it for a very long while.

"Uhm, France."

England was sure that if he had been eating or drinking something at the moment, he would have made a horrid mess of the upholstery, the windshield and the dashboard.

All at once, England felt a rush of several emotions. He felt like a Russian had smashed his knees in with a heavy lead pipe, and then he'd been set on fire by a Frenchman who was rather fond of fire, who then proceeded to kick him twice where it really counted and then punched him in the head while he was still on fire. All in all, it wasn't a very pleasant feeling and, really, England was bloody furious not only with France but with America for having let Massachusetts even see something so— he couldn't even think of a word in the English language that got across his bloody seething anger. He hadn't been this angry in _ages_.

"_France?_ Your walked in on your father sleeping with _France_?" England practically roared. He was considering smashing his foot through the windshield but he was sure that would have caused his groin muscle to be pulled out of wherever the bloody hell his groin muscle went. Anger was rather an injustice and understatement about what England was feeling at the moment and, really, the only thing stopping him from getting out of the car and once again kicking the piss out of France was the fact that he was currently in the middle of _Boston_, which was a rather large number of miles away from France. Although, England gave himself his word about knocking some sense of decency into the frog at a later, undisclosed date. Nobody was going to diddle America and scar _his _children other than England himself.

"Yeah. And that's where Vermont came from." Massachusetts said, trying to make a joke out of it and failing in a miserably agonizing fashion.

"I bloody well know where Vermont fucking well came from, Samuel!" England all but howled, smashing his gloved fist into the dashboard. Oh _God,_ he was going to kick France's ass to the bleeding moon and back and then kick him some more just for the sodding hell of it. Plus, it would make him feel better.

"Pops, calm down. I mean, it totally wasn't the last time I walked in on Dad doing weird stuff. He's always tried really hard to keep his sex life from us but apparently Dad doesn't know about this thing on a door called a 'lock'. I think, actually, after the third time, Dad just went 'ah, fuck it' and decided that he didn't care if we walked in on him anymore. You know what's weird about it, though? I seem to be the only one who's been exposed to this kind of stuff. I ask all the other states about it and they're like 'What? Dad's fucking who?' And then everyone gets real sore about it." Massachusetts mused, chuckling and sticking his hand out of the window to flip someone the bird who was honking his horn.

"So, there have been occasions when other states haven't liked your father sleeping—Er. Seeing other people?" England asked, his mood suddenly brightening.

"Oh, yeah, all the time. I mean, I don't think a lot of us could have been more pissed off when we found that Dad was knocked up with Russia's kid. I mean, the fucking _Cold War _was going on and here Dad was, with a bun in the oven that belonged to _the _Ruski of all Ruskies, ya know?"

"So, you're saying that most of you have been particularly annoyed when your father becomes involved with other people?" England probed, feeling the anger slowly dissolving. Getting that angry in that short an amount of time couldn't have been very good for his blood pressure at all. Really, it wasn't that England didn't try to stay calm. It was just that certain things set him off***** and caused him to lash out sometimes. Luckily, he hadn't ever really hit anyone near enough to him. He was an Angry British Man, not an Abusive Russian Creep. There was a very large separation between the two and England was on the nicer side of the spectrum.

"Oh, yeah. Definitely." Massachusetts responded, taking a very sharp turn that caused England's liver to nearly come out of his mouth because of the suddeness of it all. He made a mental note to never drive with Massachusetts ever again if he wanted to make it to the next largely celebrated holiday.

"Well then, how did you feel about hearing that _I_ was dating your father again?" England asked, quirking an eyebrow and holding onto the door handle which he had secretly named _'_Oh, Shit' because that's what he thought every time he had to grab it.

"I was a little offended, to be honest." The blond responded, clearing his throat and cursing under his breath when somebody cut him off unexpectedly.

"Oh," England said before taking a large breath and continuing, "Samuel, do _you_ like me?"

Massachusetts looked decidedly confused for a moment. Obviously, the boy didn't know what kind of ice he was treading on. The state seemed to be weighing the possibility of this being a rigged question. Once again, an awkward mood had descended on them. England messed with his tie for a moment because he felt bloody self-conscious suddenly.

"What, you mean as a parent? As a country? As an individual _person_?" Massachusetts finally said, voice carefully guarded.

"You know what I mean, Samuel. I mean, do you approve of me dating your father, again." England said, feeling more and more self-aware as the conversation dragged on between them more and more.

"At first, I was bitter. Then again, we all were. Because, we had spent practically all our _lives_ being Dad's everything, ya know. Suddenly, here comes this Limey—pardon the slang, Pop— who wasn't even with Dad throughout his weird Manifest Destiny phase. I think it wasn't so much that it was _you_ that made a lot of us pretty angry. It was the fact that you just sort of waltzed in and Dad was all over you and you guys just had it _so_ easy. It just, well, honestly, it just pissed us off. Even the thirteen of us were pretty bitter about it. I mean, imagine us. It was just like, well, what the fuck was the Revolution for then, Dad? It's not that we don't like, ya know." Massachusetts said finally. England listened to this with a rather uneasy look on his face. Well, it was _so_ comforting to know that his own children had been perfectly pissed off when they'd heard about America and himself becoming involved once again.

"So, Dr. Jones, what do you think now?" England asked, attempting to joke. England's brand of humor was a very black one and, in general, he wasn't very good at joking at all. He was too straight-laced to be good at normal humor. England was much better at wit, either way.

"Hell, Pop, I like ya. I mean, why wouldn't I? You raised me, you were a good parent. You know until that whole thing went down, whatever. And, you know, I think what we all were most worried about, was that Dad wasn't going to pay attention anymore. That he was just going to bail on us all of a sudden because his first boyfriend was back in the picture. But, eh, Dad loves you and he's happy and if he's happy, I'm happy. That should be enough for you. I mean, you're fucking _England_, man. Since when do you care what other people care about you? So, in my opinion, you should have to care if the other states like you or not, you're not dating Dad for them. At least, I hope you aren't. That'd be pretty creepy."

England felt an enormous weight lift of his shoulders. After all, Samuel was right! Since when had he ever cared about what other people thought about him and his personal life? Really, it didn't matter to him and perhaps he'd been blowing this entire thing out of proportion. However, that didn't bloody mean that the other states that weren't fond of him weren't going to try and piss him off. Of course they were, they were America's children. Chances were rather large that they were going to do anything in their power to make England reconsider any decisions concerning America and his children. Well then, the little bastards could bloody bring it on because they would be set into their place horribly quickly.

"Samuel, thank you." England said after he was finally done thinking up ways that he could torture the other states that were still on the campaign path even though he'd already practically won. It was the perks of getting America knocked up first, you won everything hands down when it came to a relationship with him******.

"No problem."

"So, have you had a lot of therapy because of walking in on your father boinking?" England asked, wry smile on his face.

It must have been the way he said or, perhaps, the tone because Massachusetts started by chuckling and then, quickly, he fell into honest to God laughter and there was just something simply infectious about Massachusetts' laughter because pretty soon, England was laughing as well. The odd thing about them laughing, England noticed, was that they ha the same laugh and it was impossible to separate one from the other.

Of course, if Massachusetts ever told anybody that he was laughing, England would have to kill him and, really, he didn't feel like bloody doing that.

* * *

*Typically when England said that he was referring to standing near people in London. Preferably, that was no where near anyone else if he could help it. With America, it merely meant that he recognized and cherished the fact that they were romantically linked, involved, and entangled.

**England found himself rather uneasy being in the same car as Massachusetts, mainly because he kept making unexpected U-turns that other drivers seemed to notice at the perfect time to narrowly avoid a messy collision. That didn't stop the fact that people were sticking their middle fingers out of the window, looking very indignant even though they themselves weren't doing better off in the driving department.

***i.e., Life.

****It had been a horribly good sense of self-restraint until he met America, started drinking, and kicked the piss out of France several times. Not in that order, of course.

*****i.e., France.

******Except, not really.

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**TBC**

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**A/N: Once again, went a little crazy with the footnotes but, hey, you guys seem to like them a lot so I'm guessing that it's not really a problem. Alright, so, after this chapter comes the fateful 13 Thanksgiving Dinner chapter. I'm working on it right now as you're reading this! It'll be up soon, I promise! So, anyway, thanks for reading and thanks for enjoying and, leave a review?**


	7. On Proper Table Manners At Family Dinner

When England woke up on the morning of a bloody _fantastic_ Massachusetts Thanksgiving, he noticed that he was as naked as a newborn child. Of course, under normal circumstances he would have been horribly distressed and he would have started swearing and shouting loudly about having some sense of bleeding decency, Good God. But, then England recalled what had transpired the night before and he had to give a very small smile that he wouldn't ever admit to. Of course, he had made sure to lock the door before he went to bed and, honestly, he felt horribly _dirty _for having slept* with America in the guest room of his son's expensive apartment. Or, perhaps, he felt dirty because he was sore in all the wrong places and his belly was somewhat sticky. So, being very cautious not to wake America up, England practically fell out of bed trying to detangle himself from the mess of sheets and America's limbs.

After having extracted himself from the giant bloody mess on the bed, England picked up his robe from the floor and noticed that there his handkerchief wasn't in the pocket of his robe. Frantically, he searched around the room, slipping his suitcase over and looking under the bed. Unfortunately, he couldn't find it and, really, that handkerchief had been given to him by Princess Motherfucking Diana. Oh, fuck, where had it gone off too? And then England remembered where it had gotten off to.

He had shoved it in America's mouth last night while they were going at it like heathens because America was having issues keeping quiet. England hadn't wanted his children to wake up at two in the bleeding morning and hear their parents going at it like dogs in heat. So, England had jammed it in America's mouth, much to America's surprise and mild pleasure. Of course, England had known that America was by nature a very loud person with a penchant for cursing like a sailor when he went at it. England was just surprised and vaguely shocked (and aroused like he couldn't even believe) by the fervor of America howling and cursing and dirty talking like that. It wasn't very proper but, really, was there anything proper about fucking someone you had practically raised? England quickly decide that, no, there really wasn't anything proper, decent or gentlemanly about it**.

So, attempting to placate the burning tension in his shoulder for whatever reason, England decided that taking an entirely too-cold shower would probably be the best solution to it. It wasn't that he enjoyed cold showers particularly, in all actuality, he _really_ hated them, but after last night he needed it. So, stepping under the unforgiving arctic water was his best manner of avoiding walking into the living room filled with thirteen of his former colonies (could he use the term 'former children'?) with an erection. Oh, America would have gotten a kick out of that but England would have been mortified. Plus, he would be the one paying for Massachusetts' therapy soon and he didn't feel like having to pay for therapy for thirteen people. It was too much and his wallet was suffering horribly these days as it was.

His shower was quick and he attempted to get dressed even quicker because if he were honest with himself, he didn't want America to wake up and find him prancing around the room completely naked. It would have been embarrassing and he didn't feel like having an early morning session. That's why he'd taken such a blissfully cold shower. Hastily, he yanked on a shirt and a striped pullover, quickly pulled on a pair of socks and dashed out of the room as quietly as he could. After closing the door behind him quietly, he found that Pennsylvania and New Jersey were comfortably arranged and sprawled on the couch, taking up their (un)fair share of space.

"Good morning, boys." England said, checking his wristwatch to inform his mind of the time. It was bloody nine in the morning and the only two up were these two? Oh, _joy! _He was going to be getting off to a fantastic day, wasn't he?

"Good morni—Oh, my God. Why is this movie so dope, Adam?" New Jersey said, pausing in chewing at the pink wad of gum in his mouth to stare at the television. England paused in opening his mouth to ask what they were watching after he heard the slang coming out of his son's mouth.

'Dope'? Wasn't that something having to do with cocaine, or was it hemp? What the hell were these two getting at? Perhaps, England figured, they were watching a movie about a drug cartel. Then again, in that context, it still didn't make sense. Secondly, had they even made a film about drug cartels? England's answer was that he hoped they hadn't made a film about such rubbish.

"It is a fucking awesome, movie. You just don't have any appreciation for the total sickness of Edward Motherfuckin' Norton's acting. He's freaking fantastic, is what he is." Pennsylvania said, running a hand through his hair and making himself even more comfortable on the couch.

"What are you boys watching?" England asked, walking behind the couch to catch a glimpse of scrawny brunet man with a gun in his mouth. Oh, American film culture would never cease to amaze him. What these poor states considered entertainment was nothing more than ever human failing glorified and put up in a fifty foot screen to be enjoyed. Really, it wasn't that he was bitter because his own country didn't have such a fantastic and lucrative fucking film culture. Of course not, that was rubbish of the greatest kind. There were hundreds of fantastic British films that were far classier than their American counterparts. Still, he had to applaud American films for being bloody entertaining sometimes.

"Fight Club." The boys responded simultaneously, both of them transfixed entirely on the whir of the film which apparently had just started. England rolled his eyes again and wondered if one could get a motion injury in the eyes because it seemed that all he bloody did when he was around America's children***. In all honesty, he wouldn't be surprised if one of his eyes fell out because they were always being rolled toward the ceiling as if England was praying to the mystical deity that was residing in the whiteness of whatever ceiling he happened to be rolling his eyes toward.

"May I sit?" England asked, feeling that this may been an opportune moment for some male bonding through a movie that, apparently, was pumped full of male resentment and testosterone.

"Yeah, sure. Go ahead. We, uh, just started the movie so you're lucky you came out at the right time. S'one of my favorite movies, Pops." Pennsylvania said, still watching the television with an amazing level of engrossment. It vaguely reminded England of a cat that was very much enjoying playing with his lunch or dinner of a canary or, perhaps if the cat was rather lucky, a mouse.

"Oh, good. So, I haven't missed anything?" England asked, sitting on a rather plush armchair that England distinctly remembered sitting in and watching America rock Rhode Island to sleep. Wistfully, he sat back and prepared himself to sit through whatever miserable torture that was soon to be inflicted upon his eyes.

Nearly two and a half agonizing hours**** (during which America had sometime wandered out, looking deliciously rumpled) later, England stared blankly at the television screen. He wrinkled his nose and sighed profoundly. He looked at the two states on the couch and rubbed the bridge of his nose. He felt like he had glass rubbed into his eyes, had his nose broken, and, _really_, he wanted to hate the world because there was violence, but there was sex too. So, all around, it felt like he'd had glass rubbed into his eyes, and then had his body smothered in questionable body fluids. Because when England went to the movies, he loved feeling like he'd just had his mind chewed up and spit out by Helena Bonham Carter.

"Did ya like it? Wasn't it totally sick?" Pennsylvania asked, grinning like only America's children could when faced with something that they perceived to be totally 'sick', 'boss', 'dope', or simply plain 'awesome'. England weighed his words very carefully before responding.

"I think it points out some very interesting things about consumer society, Adam."

"Yeah, but when you get right down to it, it's totally about anarchy isn't it? Y'know, right after I saw this movie, I went out and said 'fuck popular brands and mindless consumerism'! I wanted to be Tyler Durden, so, I went out and spent about five hundred and fifty bucks on shit from Urban Outfitters and Reebok because, hey, if I'm gonna be Tyler Durden, I had to have that fuck-all attitude. Then I went on the internet and bought a bar of pink _Fight Club _soap. I mean, I'm Jesse Jones. I practically _am_ Tyler Durden." New Jersey said, stretching lethargically and popping the gum that he had been gnawing on throughout the entire movie.

"Actually, Jesse, the movie is clearly a satire based upon the fact that anarchy is bad. The movie—and probably the book it was based on, as well—is essentially pointing out that rebellion against the social order it transposed cruelty against the self, not the reverse. So, really, all you accomplished was giving into the mindless consumerism that you had so strongly detested. Isn't it a wonderful paradox?" England said, pausing to take a long sip of the tea that Georgia had been so kind to bring him earlier.

New Jersey simply glared at England with all he could muster up. Apparently, New Jersey really loved Tyler Durden because England was just pointing out the obvious. Once again, it seemed that he had ruined somebody else's childhood hero*****. _Oh_, the poor _dear_.

"Pop," Pennsylvania said, sighing and stretching once again as he got up and switched the television to a channel broadcasting some massive parade that included massive balloons.

"You totally just ruined the movie for, Pop. Thanks. Thanks a lot." New Jersey said, crossing his arms over his chest and petulantly popping his bubble gum.

"I apologize. Well, I'm off to go help in the Kitchen. Enjoy your day of being lazy and care-free and generally being completely useless." England said, extricating himself from the comfortable and familiar arm chair and heading toward the kitchen with a smirk on his face. _Oh_, he simply _loved _ruining movies for people. It just made his heart flutter in the most pleasant of ways.

* * *

*England wasn't quite sure himself which manner of sleep he was talking about. Of course, America and England had slept in the honest meaning of the word but that sleeping was after they had done some rather active sleeping with each other in the same bed. England still felt odd regardless.

**Although it did sit damn well with the scallywag in him. Nicely so, actually.

***Even if they were _England's_ children with America, it still stood that they were _America's_. Only because England didn't want to get involved with their horrid tomfoolery that involved being either too liberal or too conservative.

****He had sat through Brad Pitt and Edward Norton knocking the piss out of each other and other men for _two bloody hours. _That was _two_ hours of his life that he had spent staring at Brad Pitt's ridiculously chiseled body. It made England doubt himself. So, he did the only thing he could do, he hated Brad Pitt with all the English cynicism that he could muster. This was a lot, actually.

*****The first and most prominent time had been when England had told Canada that the French were nothing more than nymphomaniac winos with a tendency for hating good people like the British.

* * *

When England walked into the kitchen, everyone in it seemed to pause and look at him strangely. Georgia, who was sitting with Virginia and the two were blabbing on like girls were wont to do, gave him a look that seemed to say '_Well, there goes the dinner' _But, really, England wasn't here to see if they wanted help. Actually, he had come in here with the purpose of perhaps scavenging some breakfast and then sitting to read the morning post. America faltered slightly in stirring a large pot as did Massachusetts, who suddenly looked terribly tired and resigned.

"Morning, England." America said, exchanging looks with all the states that were in the kitchen, bustling around and going about whatever culinary pursuits they were slaving away on. From what England could tell, New Hampshire was practically glaring down at a pie crust that seemed to not be cooperating at all. Really, it wasn't like England was going to poison the food*.

"Good morning, America, children. Do you need any hel—" England began because, honestly, it was the least he could to help. After all, he owed some sort of favor

"No!" America blurted suddenly, and then seemed to notice that he had just shouted it rather loudly. And then something happened that England hadn't seen in a very long while. America looked at the states in the kitchen and they all locked at him and then at each other and then, once again, at America. They were doing that perfectly odd thing where they communicated via some sort of mental brainwave or, perhaps, simply by looking at one another. America had always been particularly good at it when the Revolution was just an idea bubbling in America's head. Truthfully, England hadn't ever been very good at communicating with anybody, much less his children. America cleared his throat and then grinned widely, "No, we don't need help, babe. But, why don't you and some of the kids go to the grocery store? You can help that way, if you want. New Hampshire needs some, uh, pumpkin pulp. Like, a lot of it so he can make his totally awesome pie. Because, hey, it's just not Thanksgiving without pie, right? Am I right, guys?" America said, laughing loudly and rather obnoxiously but England was able to catch the sort of sick desperation in his laugh.

Oh, bloody hell, he wasn't _that_ bad at cooking. England sighed heavily and looked at America with an annoyed look on his face.

"Right, Dad." The states, even the ones in the living room said simultaneously and England was sure that this had been rehearsed because, honestly, was sure that Connecticut had just harmonized with Rhode Island. Oh, well, this was odd. Usually, America couldn't get the kids to agree about anything but, apparently, pie really was an integral part of the holiday meal that was known simply as the Thanksgiving Dinner.

"Right! See, England? And, if we don't have pie it'll just be sort of, uh, lame and not awesome at all. So, we need the pumpkin pulp stuff! So, you, Virginia, Georgia, and, uh, Delaware can all go to the grocery store! Yeah. _And _there's a list on the counter of some stuff we need anyway. Thanks so much, babe! I appreciate it!" America said, still grinning. Bloody hell, what had just happened? Had America just talked him into going grocery shopping? It wasn't like he really had a chance to intervene since America seemed to talk at excess speeds of twenty miles.

It was bloody astounding that America had managed to manipulate him like that and England hadn't even noticed it until he was being herded out of the door like a goddamned sheep. How the hell had America accomplished that? Holy bleeding hell, England had always thought that America was clever to a certain extent, he just thought that America's pure idiocy prevented from ever really using it. Apparently, the potential cleverness had somehow managed to fuse with a glittering sense of charisma that America had developed suddenly. It must have been that damn smile! It hadn't even been a subtle manipulation! It had just been America telling him to go buy things. England sighed moodily as he stared out the window of the car. America had _him_ on a long leash apparently and he wouldn't stand for it!

"So, Pa," Georgia began from the backseat, curling a piece of sunshine colored hair around her tan finger. England rubbed at his temples, feeling the seedlings of a bloody migraine starting.

"Yes, Rose?" England said, peering over his shoulder to stare at his daughter with a fierce look on his face.

"How long have you and Dad been together now?" Delaware asked, turning the wheel smoothly and England hadn't seen driving this good in a while. It was nice to know that Delaware was slightly better at driving than Massachusetts, who drove like a four-year-old on cocaine.

"About four months now." England responded, eyes darting to the rearview mirror. Why was it, that whenever he went anywhere in America with other people, he was immediately shoved into the passenger seat? He wasn't going to crash the bloody car if they just let him drive it.

"Awh, that's so sweet, Daddy. You know, it's really cool to have to back with us. I know a lot of the other states were really pissy when they heard about it but, hey, you've got me and Georgia's support!" Virginia said cheerfully, inspecting her nails and smiling widely. If anything could be said about Virginia being America's child it was definitely the fact that she could smile a billion megawatt smile for hours on end and never get tired. Then again, America's personality was so overbearing that, apparently, it managed to bleed through to their kids because they had all come out rather energetic and blandly cultured. Then again, not everyone could be as worldly and sophisticated as England himself.

"Thank you, dear. It means a lot to me that you all support me. What about you Delaware, what do you think of it?" England asked, looking at his son. Delaware had always been one of his favorites because he was well-behaved and docile and perfectly compliant. Secondly, Delaware had been so bloody reluctant to break ties with England when that horrid Revolution business and talk of Enlightenment was sweeping the colonies. Still, eventually Delaware did leave and England had responded by throwing something akin to a temper tantrum and taking control of the Delaware river. Needless to say, Delaware had been furious and then that fucking cockhead Washington had to go for a fucking night ride and dash everything to pieces. Bloody fucking Washington had been _in love_ with America and that had served to piss England off even further. Washington had been nothing more than a dirty old man with a dirty fixation on pretty, young blonds. Or, well, maybe it was just America. Apparently, though, America had that effect on all the old men of the time period, Benedict Arnold notwithstanding.

"I think it's pointless, actually." Delaware said easily, the words slipping out of his mouth.

"_Sebastian!_" Virginia and Georgia squawked at the same time, looking perfectly scandalized. Oh bloody pissing bollocks! What the bloody hell was _this_? He had always liked Delaware. Up until this point, anyway. Now Delaware could choke on a cherry and England would simply sit back and comment on how the particular shade of purple his face wasn't very flattering. Well, maybe not to that extent because England never wish bad on another person** because he was a gentleman and it was widely known that gentleman didn't behave in such a horrendously unkindly manner. Moreover, England was many things but not unkind***.

"He's just giving his opinion, girls. It's alright." England placated, staring at the side of Delaware's head as if he could make it not only burst into flames spontaneously but could also make the first state change his mind on the subject at hand. "Why do you say that, Sebastian?" England pressed, crossing his ankles.

"Well, Dad broke up with you for a reason. And now he decides to go running back to you? Or did you come running back to him like a needy teenager?" Delaware began and, really, England had to admire Delaware. Of course, the boy had some very odd sense of calm about him. He was so calm it almost hurt England's teeth for whatever reason. There was such a sense of tranquility there that it simply had to be recognized. Yet, here was another state that didn't approve and he was _the _original state. England didn't really care though, it wasn't like he _needed_ Delaware's blessing to date America. Little bugger thought he knew everything, didn't he. Still, England rather liked that he was honestly opinionated. It was nice.

" Like I said before, it just seems sort of stupid to me. He always does shit like this these days. Back in the fifties, it was that whole Russia spiel with him. How the hell was he going to look at me and say 'Fuck communism, it's bad!' while he had a bun in the oven that belonged to the communist baker, hm? How was he going to look at me after World War Two and say shit about Pearl Harbor? So, how does he help Japan 'heal'? He goes and gets knocked up by Japan. Yeah, Dad, _that's _classy. Someone has to point out that this is just fucking ridiculous. Someone has to tell the truth around here even if it hurts." Delaware said, still about as worked up as a block of ice. Sweet Christ, how the hell was Delaware even keeping this serene? It was almost sickening. Secondly, who the hell had he gotten _that _from?

"I mean, Dad declared himself independent because he wanted to be away from you. And then what happened? He got knocked up by France and then you, _you of all people_, came crawling back saying you wanted to father _all _of Dad's children. You did it and left. Dad was left with fucking Kentucky. So, you answer me this, why should I think Dad's romantic life has a fucking point when all he's accomplished in the past two hundred years is just get knocked up by able-bodied motherfucker that has working bits and parts?"

"You're making Dad sound like a slut!" Georgia announced hotly from the back seat, still twirling a lock of hair around her finger in an odd manner that she had had since she was a nothing but a wee colony.

"Yeah, Seb, that's not very nice." Virginia said, sighing heavily and nodding her head in a feverish manner. England inhaled deeply and hoped that Delaware didn't think so poorly of _him. _Vaguely, he wondered if anybody ever gave such harsh criticism about him behind his back.

"Look, I'm pointing out facts _and_ I'm not done. Look, I'm not saying that I don't want you and Dad to be together. No, don't get me wrong. I think it's great that you guys are together. I'm not going to try and sabotage your relationship because I find that you guys will probably be able to handle that yourselves, believe me. Really, I think it's great that you guys are back together and working through your issues, whatever those may be. But, as it stands, Dad's romantic endeavors are totally pointless to me. Because, really, all it is Dad getting fucked over by someone who just wants in his pants for whatever period of time is most convenient for them. And I'm sick of seeing Dad be all sulky because of it. But, hey, you know what? Go for it. You've got my blessing," Delaware paused to give England a small smile, "_Pop." _

England managed to give another small smile in response and in the space of three seconds, he suddenly felt very tired and horribly old. He shook his head and stared down at the argyle pattern of his socks because, really, they were very soothing and perfectly fashionable even if certain people didn't agree with him. Hell, in England, argyle was the height of fashion.

"Sebastian, I didn't know that you had grown up to be such an intellectual and opinionated young man. Frankly though, I'm glad you approve of my dating your father." England responded, feeling bloody confused. What the hell had that entire speech been for then? Couldn't he have just said that it was okay? Maybe Delaware was like France and simply liked to hear himself talk. Although, from what he could tell, the closest thing that Delaware and France had in common was nicotine addictions and sparse facial hair.

"Wait, Seb, you went through all that just to tell Pop that you thought it was okay that he was dating Dad?" Virginia asked, voicing England's earlier thoughts. England looked at her in the backseat and sighed slightly. Bloody hell, genius this entire family was.

"No, I went through all that to tell Pop that Dad's love life has no point to it. Plus, every time Dad gets involved with someone, he always ends up fucked over in one way or another." Delaware responded, rolling his eyes and turning into the parking lot of the grocery store.

"Nah, I think you only said that stuff because you have an Electra complex and you're in love with Dad. That or you're just an asshole." Georgia said, still twirling at her hair and glaring at the back of Delaware's head.

"Shut up, Georgia, nobody here wants to hear your opinion." Delaware fired back, voice as smooth as a piece of glass. How the hell did Delaware stay this fucking calm? It was a bloody miracle because England had wanted to slap Delaware so hard throughout that entire tirade but a sense of paternal instinct had kept him from knocking his own son's teeth out. England wasn't quite sure if this was a good thing or a bad thing.

"Hey, _Delaware_, go die in a ditch." Georgia returned, her mouth pouting slightly.

"If it'll get me away from you, gladly."

"Hey, guys, guess _what_? Nobody cares about your argument." Virginia interceded, looking rather like a Mother Hen with the way she was casting angry looks between her two squabbling siblings.

"I agree." England said coolly, quirking an eyebrow. Really, children could be so problematic sometimes. That still didn't change the fact that he was about two seconds away from grabbing Delaware's head and smashing it up against the steering wheel and the through the windshield. That little prick didn't know anything. So, really, he _could_ choke on a cherry pit for all he cared.

Fuck Delaware.

* * *

*Technically speaking, he wasn't going to put something of questionable status in it like, say, cyanide or arsenic. However, it seemed that whenever England managed to get near any sort of cooking, it happened to suddenly adopt the chemical properties of either formaldehyde or lead. It was quite distressing.

**Not in public, anyway.

***Public opinion seemed to be largely different. Even America thought it but hadn't ever said it because, well, he was stupid not heartless, _Gosh_.

* * *

When they got back from store, England set the mountains of groceries on the table and stared at America as if he were ready to blow his brains out. America, who was as perceptive as a teaspoon, looked at him happily before going over and kissing England on the cheek.

"Hey, you. How was the store?" America asked, taking things out and putting them in respective easy to find places.

"Fantastic. Pure fun. It was ecstasy." England returned dryly, staring at the back of Delaware's head. Oh, what he wouldn't give for a javelin at the moment. Bleeding hell, England wanted to just smack that kid around.

"That good, huh?" Maryland asked wryly, eyeing England cautiously and shrugging fluidly.

"Yes. Do you still need help in the kitchen?"

"Yeah, uhm, I think. Dad?"

"What? Oh, right. Uhm, help. Well, the turkey's already in the oven and stuff and that's gonna be cooking for a pretty long time. But, hey, you could help New Hampshire with the pies! He's just getting started, right, Johnnie?" America asked, fixing New Hampshire with a look that dared the state to challenge him on the matter. New Hampshire stared at America and then looked at England.

"Yeah. Just pull up a chair and we can start doing shit." New Hampshire grunted, going back to setting the crust in the pan he was currently working with.

"Really, if you don't want any help, I can just go find something else to do." England said, rolling his eye toward the ceiling in a practiced motion. Really, New Hampshire looked as if he wanted to just get up and shoot England through the heart if the state's glare was anything to go by.

"Pop, seriously? Just sit down so you can help me with the pie." New Hampshire all but growled, staring at England with the same ferocity.

"Yeah, and once you're done over there you can help me with the corn!" Maryland chirped happily, grinning like a maniac. Bloody hell, last time he had talked to Maryland, the boy looked like he was ready to shove a grenade up England's arse. Holy hell, this family was so bloody confusing and he felt like the children and colonies he had once known were all complete strangers.

"Or, you can not help Jacob with the corn and help me with the fucking green beans." Rhode Island said, cracking his neck and then his knuckles as if he were going to attempt to knock some sense into the food he was preparing.

"You know what, boys? I think I'll pass on this golden opportunity. I'm sorry but this Thanksgiving you'll be having no glorious English cooking. It's a pity. But, perhaps next year, then." England said before he slipped out into the living room, finding that South and North Carolina were lounging on the floor with a board game between them.

"Hey, Pop. Wanna play with us?" North Carolina asked, staring intently at his brother and then at the board game.

"What are you boys playing?" England asked politely, looking to see Massachusetts who had crashed on the couch and had a rather long string of drool hanging out of his mouth. Oh, how perfectly quaint and charming.

"Risk." The boys responded as they looked up for a split second to grin at England. Good God, did everyone in this family smile at the slightest mention of anything having to do with anyone? England calmly put his hand in his pockets and observed at the two brother rapidly proceeded through the game. England found himself absolutely in love with the game once he figured out what it was all about. At some time during the match, Georgia wandered over and began observing the game as well.

"Hey guys—"

"You can't play right now. We're in the middle of a game." North Carolina said, looking horribly serious and very much like England as he claimed what England identified at Russia. At seeing this, South Carolina let out a slew of curses and rubbed at his forehead.

"I wasn't gonna ask if I could, Jesus." Georgia said, rolling her big green eyes toward the ceiling and reminding England of someone else who rolled their eyes in excess. England smiled and noticed that, oddly enough, Georgia looked rather like himself except she opted to get her eyebrows waxed apparently, and, really, England couldn't blame her. Still, England liked his eyebrows; he thought they were perfectly fine. They gave him a strong sense of character.

"Yeah, you were. I saw you standing there." North Carolina continued, setting up his army to begin an attack on South Carolina's men.

"That doesn't mean I was going to ask!" Georgia said, a sudden twang in her voice that rather offended England's ears.

"Yeah, it does." South Carolina responded.

"You can play next roun—Shit! Fuck you, Anthony. How the hell did you win?"

"Because I'm that much better than you, Alex." South Carolina said, sitting up and running a hand through his hair.

"Now can I play?"

"Now that North lost? Oh, yeah. Sure thing. Hey, Pop, you wanna play?" South Carolina asked, stretching lethargically and cracking his knuckles. Georgia grinned and sat down on the floor, careful to make sure that the indecently short skirt* she was wearing didn't suddenly rise up. England considered if he wanted to play. Of course, he _wanted _to play but, really, would he be any good at it? England quickly decided that he would be just fine at it because, really, at some point or another in his very _long_ life he had been the British Empire. Chances were, this game would simply be a flashback for him. Sighing, England sat on the ground, feeling something in his back pop suddenly.

"Alright, let's get this started." South Carolina said, putting everything back in order and handing England the dice.

Six matches of Risk and four hours later, England was fully reminded why he had been so amazingly powerful as an empire. He had seen to it personally that he handed the rear ends of his children back to them with a proud sort of joy in his eyes. Sweet God, he had missed all the conquering and going about one's life like a damn pirate business that he had loved so much.

Georgia, North Carolina, and South Carolina all stared hatefully at the board, as if it were to blame for their misfortune in the game. England was very much holding back from simply running his mouth on how it was a game of historic strategy and, obviously, one should always start by taking over France because it was weak.

"Thanks for playing Dad, but, uh, we don't feel like playing anymore. We're gonna watch the Charlie Brown movie." Georgia said, getting up and yawning slightly.

South Carolina and North Carolina nodded, getting up as well and putting everything back in its respective box.

"Well, aren't you going to ask me how I won?"

"Uh, no. We don't really care." North Carolina said, shrugging and giving England an apologetic smile.

"Oh."

"It's not you. Trust us, it's just that we're bad losers. Runs in the family." South Carolina whispered, pointing at his brother and making an exaggerated frown.

Disappointed, England looked out the window to see Connecticut sitting on the balcony. Oh, he hadn't quite talked to him yet, had he? England rubbed at a sore spot on his neck.

Walking his way onto the balcony, he sat down across from Connecticut on a quaint wicker chair. Connecticut looked up for a second giving England a small nod and smile in recognition. Connecticut, for as long as England could bloody remembered, had always been the proverbial black sheep of the family, even in appearance.

When America had first had Connecticut, he looked like all the rest of his siblings. He had been blonde, with blue eyes, and a pale complexion that mirrored England's own. He looked rather like America growing up and then at about five, his hair had started to darken until it was a nice brown color. At that point in time. England had become suspicious that maybe Connecticut hadn't been his. Oddly enough, Connecticut had his eyebrows, so England's worries had been quickly put to rest. Still, Connecticut had always chosen to remain inside, nose in a book, when his siblings had been outside harvesting and playing like America's children were known to do.

"Hello, Elijah, how're you doing?"

"Okay." Connecticut responded, turning a page and pushing his thin reading glasses up his nose.

"That's nice." England said, wishing that he suddenly had a cup of tea. Well, bloody hell, it was as chilly as Russia outside.

"Mmhm." Connecticut hummed slowly, closing his book and clearing his throat.

"What were you reading?" England asked, rubbing his hand discreetly together under the table. Holy hell, if America wanted to have children with him soon, England would have to put a stop to it because, truly, his scrotum was probably freezing to the chair at the moment.

"A book about deism."

"Ah. And what is you position on it? Benjamin Franklin was deist, you know." England pointed out, steeling himself for a lengthy conversation with his son because Connecticut was sure to begin a debate with him. Ah, Benjamin Franklin had been another one of those perverts that had fancied America rather strongly. Although, to England it seemed that Franklin also happened to be infatuated somewhat with France. All those damned founding fathers simply couldn't keep it in their knickers when it came to America. Then again, England couldn't really blame them because, really, neither could he and that would simply be the pot calling the kettle black.

"I agree with deism and that atheism is completely ridiculous."

"Alright, prove to me that atheism is ridiculous. I'm not a profoundly religious man but I acknowledge that there is indeed some sort of greater power that is. But for the sake of your argument, I'm going to play Devil's advocate, Eli. So, go ahead, show me what you can do."

"Alright, well, I'll start with a very spatial argument. Let's say that God is synonymous with the word 'everything' because it is omnipotent, omnipresent, and omniscient. So, God is everything and everything is God. To deny the existence of everything would be pointless because the entire universe is made up of matter, which, in turn, makes up everything. To deny the existence of matter is pointless because even though we cannot see it, it exists and is the basis of everything. Secondly, to deny the God exists is silly because the universe and everything in it exists. Thus, atheism is ridiculous is God is everything." Connecticut said, taking off his reading glasses and smiling triumphantly.

Well, bloody hell. Somebody had been watching debates as of late. England hummed slightly, taking in all the information that was presented to him. It had been _so_ long since he'd last had a decent debate about anything with anyone that hadn't terminated with England throwing up on their shoes or smashing a bottle of sherry on the other person's head**. Clearing his throat and reminding himself that there was huge flaw in Connecticut's logic he smiled cockily.

"Well, if I was to take your argument literally, it would seem that you were suggesting that common things are God. For example, this morning I had a nice cup of god for breakfast, I'm currently sitting on god, and I'm going to be having different types of god for dinner tonight. But, really, I don't think that's what you mean," England paused crossing his legs and leaning back in the chair to get comfortable before continuing, "you see, your logic is flawed."

"Actually, Pop, it isn't because now you're just proving that God exists because that's exactly what I meant! The only question that remains then, is God—or everything—sentient or not? Does God have plans, feelings, thoughts, etcetera, and etcetera. That's really the question, Pop." Connecticut said, smiling widely now and propping his head lazily on his right hand. England had to hand it to the boy, when he gave an argument, he followed through on it quite nicely.

"Good point but, please, continue. What's your line of logic in this?" England pursued, quirking an eyebrow and finding that this was the most mentally stimulating conversation that he'd ever had with any of America's children. Needless to say, it cemented the fact that Connecticut was his because no other nation appreciated cold hard logic like England did***. He was all for thinking things through.

"Step one is that God equals everything. Step two, therefore God exists and the corollary, atheism, is ridiculous. Now there is a choice to recognize whether God is sentient; or one can deny the sentience of God even with overwhelming evidence supporting that God is sentient, which is step three. _That's _my line of logic." The brunet said proudly, looking like America would have if America were smug bastard with England's eyebrows.

England mulled the response over and felt his frontal lobe tingling in pleasure while his fingers seemed to be turning an unhealthy shade of blue due to being outside. Good God, England didn't remember winters being this bloody harsh in Massachusetts. And then he realized that he couldn't think of anything to respond with. Oh bloody hell, his first debate in ages and he'd lost it to his child. How perfectly wonderful for his ego.

"Alright, I'll surrender this time. What you were doing here was using an enthymeme. Your logic line, though, was slightly skewed. Your line of logic: One, God equals everything. One-point-five, We know that everything exits. Two, therefore God exists. While that's fine, you should have said something like this: One, God equals toast. One-point-five, we know and recognize that toast exists. Two, therefore, God exists. So, now that we've cleared that up, I'd like to go inside because I'm rather sure that my testicles are no longer functioning and that maybe a problem if your father decides that he wants more children. This, really, would be beyond me. Well, in we go." England said, standing and pushing his chair in.

"Pop?"

"Yes, Elijah?" England responded, looking over his shoulder at Connecticut who seemed to have a slightly pleading look on his face.

"I want you and Dad to get back together for real this time."

"What do you mean 'for real'? Your father and I are back together, dear."

"No, no, Pop. Trust me, I know that you are. I just—I mean, like get back together and not break up this time. Because Dad needs you more than he needs us. Sure, we need him but not the same way he needs you. Dad is, uh, sort of dense. Just a bit, really. Still, he really loves you and, uh, he needs you. So, yeah. Don't break up this time; I don't think you could take it. And it'd just tear Dad up." Connecticut said quietly, tugging a strand of wayward hair behind his ear.

"Whatever gave you the idea that your father and I were even going to break up, hm?" England asked, hand on the handle and wishing, desperately so, that Connecticut would just shut the bloody hell up because every second out in the freezing cold was lowering England's potential sperm count. In a feeble attempt to warm himself up, England began shifting his weight from foot to foot in a manner that was vaguely reminiscent of someone who had to relieve their bladder very badly, or, if you were so artistically inclined, a very nervous white man trying his hand at dancing and failing terribly****.

"Nothing, I'm just sayin'." Connecticut said, pushing in his own chair and picking up the book. Apparently, Connecticut was used to frigid temperature. And, really in all honesty, England shouldn't have been as affected by it because English winters were bone-numbing but, sweet Jesus, this weather was atrocious.

"Yes, yes. While that's all well and good, I'd like to get inside now. Come on, put a _move on it_." England barked, opening the door quickly and giving a sigh of relief upon feeling the warm gush of air that was brushing up against his cheeks. _Oh_, that was good.

* * *

*Really, calling the headband made out of denim a 'skirt' was too much recognition.

**Both these things happened when he was out to dinner with France during the Bohemian movement in Paris. Spain had been there and there had been a heated debate about what color eyes was best in a lover. IN order to win his case of saying that blue was the best, England had picked up the bottle of sherry and smashed it on Spain's head. He then managed to get sick all over Spain's shoes, as if to add insult to injury. That was the last time he ever had Absinthe.

***Except Japan but, honestly, Japan hadn't been colonizing America when America had figured out that he was pregnant with Connecticut. Plus, the eyebrows might as well have been a paternity test with the way they looked. It was practically a genetic marker that proclaimed you were somehow related to England.

****England was very terrible at dancing, modern dancing anyway. He was a terrific partner if you wanted to waltz. But other than that, England's prowess on the dance floor was nothing. And, well, he did have one dance move but America always thought it looked like he had to pee when he did it. So, he just never danced anymore. Not in public anyway.

* * *

He was staring down at the small index card as if it was his mortal enemy and, perhaps, in a way, it was. He looked incredulously from Maryland to Rhode Island and then, finally, to New Hampshire, who looked slightly annoyed.

"You want me to do _what_?" England asked and, honestly, these three couldn't possibly be _serious._ Earlier today they had been practically tripping over themselves to get him _out _of the kitchen. Now, they came to him for help? In their time of need, he was to be their savior? Okay, well, maybe he was exaggerating this situation just a tad but, really, there had to be some sort of skewed reasoning for this.

"We want you to help us bake a pie. C'mon, Popsies, its only _one _pie and I _know_ you can do it!" Maryland said, leaning on the countertop and smiling like it was the only thing he knew what to do. It wasn't that he particularly _disliked_ Maryland and it wasn't like he had been the bane of his existence. No, it was just that Maryland was always _smiling. _If it rained, Maryland was smiling. If it was sunny outside, Maryland was smiling. So, really, it was smiley people like that who got on England's nerves very easily. Vaguely, England wondered if he had been smiling during the Civil War.

"Yeah, plus. I already baked three pies. So, if you fuck this one up we can tell Dad that you made one of mine. That way, you won't look like a retard." New Hampshire said in a dismissive tone, moving some measuring cups away. Oh-ho! So, now they thought he couldn't cook? He very well could, thank you _very_ much and, really, he was going to show them how perfectly fantastic he could be at it. For God's sake, Gordon Ramsey was one of _his_ people so England was going to channel the _hell _out of the prickly bastard.

Bustling into the kitchen, England stared down his nose* at his three children. There was any way in bleeding _hell _that they were going to beat him in this. As far as England was concerned, this was a very domestic version of Iron Chef. Well, those three didn't know what was coming to them because, damn it, England could cook.

"Let's get one thing damn clear between all of us, okay? I'm doing this for you and your father. I didn't come all the way here to be _bullied _into baking a _pie_. Secondly, why the bloody hell are you making _four _pies? It's thirteen people with four pies? Are you all going to have more than six pieces each?" England asked, shuffling about and smacking at this pot and that one, as if they were to blame for his taking on this ridiculous bet. Maryland chuckled happily, following England on his path of terror as he ransacked the kitchen cupboards, looking for pie pan.

"Popsies, the pan is already on the table. Besides, we're making four pies because Dad always eats an entire pie. It's kind of gross but, hey, its Dad, so we just sort of accept it." Maryland said, pointing to the table with the same grin on his face and, if England was to be completely honest with himself, he was about two seconds away from turning around and punching Maryland in the gut. Good God, for one thing he never stopped smiling _and _on top of that, he didn't shut the bloody fuck up. He really was America's child, bugger him.

"Your father eats an entire pie? By _himself_? That's perfectly repulsive. And it can't be healthy." England muttered, more to himself and the pan than to anyone else in the kitchen.

"Uh, actually, Dad's been doing it since forever. So, really, you shouldn't care. Plus, Dad's about as healthy as he can be." New Hampshire said, pushing Maryland away from following England and glaring at his brother and tossing a rather large can of pumpkin pulp on the table.

Rhode Island, who looked like he would have been having a more enjoyable time if there was a bullet lodged in the side of his jaw bone, was staring at England and all the nation could do was furrow his eyebrows and stare back. Rhode Island and England hadn't ever really gotten along even when the state had been a tiny little colony. England recalled one certain time when America had handed him Rhode Island and said that he would be right back. So, left alone with one of his children, England thought that perhaps nothing horrible would happen. He had been sadly, sadly mistaken. The second America left the room, Rhode Island had started screaming and sobbing so loudly that England was tempted to just kick the baby to shut it up. The second America came back, Rhode Island had stopped crying.

"This is bullshit." Rhode Island said tritely, stare warping into a full-blown glare that promised pain if Rhode Island was allowed his way with England. England cracked one of his knuckle joints and then stared back at him. There, he hadn't baited anyone at all on this trip but apparently, Rhode Island had something he wanted to say. _Oh,_ England was ready to hear this.

"What? The fact that I am currently in your brother's kitchen getting ready to bake a pie? Yes, you're completely correct! How utterly _preposterous._" England responded sarcastically, sitting at a table and crossing his ankles as he perused the battered index card with the recipe on it. He _could_ do this. He could make one simple pie. And it would probably be the best damn pie America had ever bloody ingested. If Rhode Island was going to go ahead and behave like a complete _twat_ about it then, really, England didn't couldn't honestly care less.

"No, this whole thing about trying to get all up in Dad's junk. I'm sorry but you need to get the fuck out of his life, thanks." Rhode Island commented, thick eyebrows already beginning to furrow in anger that was starting to come out rather quickly. If one thing could be said about Rhode Island, it was his damned temper that he had gotten from England. England's temper was rather substantial on its own but sometimes it was rather outmanned and outgunned by America's own crazy temper. England always tried his hardest to not make America angry because, really, it was the stupid ones you had to look out for** when they decided to throw a temper tantrum that generally involved nuclear warfare.

"Ohmigod, Isaac, get out of his _face_." Maryland hissed, putting a tan hand on his brother's arm and attempting to yank him away. It suddenly seemed very ironic to England that Rhode Island was tall because, when England thought about, wasn't Rhode Island the smallest state? And, yet, here was a rather tall young man that was quite a few inches taller than England himself which was saying something. Apparently, size wasn't a very big issue for Rhode Island.

Maryland and New Hampshire, on the other hand, were closer to England in stature. As for personality, the closest thing that England had in common with either one of them was New Hampshire permanent sour mood. Really, that was the closest he got to either one of them.

"Listen here, Old Man," Rhode Island snarled, as if this a few harshly spoken words were _really _going to just chase the former British Empire away. This boy honestly needed to rethink his intimidation strategies because, sweet God, it just wasn't working.

"_No," _England snapped, putting a plate down a little too sharply on the glass top of the small round table in the Massachusetts' kitchen, "_you _listen, you little _brute_. Once upon a time, so long ago that I have quite forgotten the exact date, _I _was your father. It's all well and good and I can accept the fact that you are no longer my responsibility and thank_ God_ because I couldn't stand having to take care of your everyday of my goddamned life. I'm sorry to inform you I will not be going anywhere for a very long nor will I be leaving your 'Dad' and your 'Popsies' alone. So, really and in all truth, just step the hell off or I will seriously consider withdrawing my recognition of your paternity. I am here for a new beginning with your 'Popsies', you little tart. Not to dig up old wounds that we both don't care to discuss. So, Isaac, shut your mouth and hand me the damn sugar. Please and thank you." England said, mouth drawn into a tight scowl. In truth he felt a little winded from that and he was struggling to regain the breath as discreetly as he possibly could. Good parenting be damned! Sometimes, a man had to do what a man had to do and if that meant fussing out your child to cement your status as the alpha male of the family, then so be it. Plus, it made England feel a hell of a lot better about himself. He still had a little Captain in him.

"Any questions, Isaac?" England asked, staring down Rhode Island.

New Hampshire looked as if he was practically pissing himself with holding back laughter at the expression on Rhode Island's face, which was torn between crying from embarrassment or punching England's jaw until it flew off. Maryland looked decidedly skittish and Cranberry, Massachusetts' dog, was falling in love with England's legs once again. Although a well-placed snarl from England managed to chase the dog away, the three states looked slightly put off by the idea of having to share the kitchen with a parent who may have wanted to add their limbs to the pie. Or, well, at least that's how Maryland felt and, truth be told, Rhode Island was about two short seconds from throttling England. England bore it all with a sort of patient threatening in his eyes.

"Now, on this card it says two eggs. Are you sure that's the right amount, Jonathan?" England asked, staring

"Look, Pop, we've been using this same recipe for about thirty years now, thanks. If the index card calls for two eggs, you crack two eggs and add it to the mix. We follow what it says closely, like, _very_ closely. The recipe calls for a scrote? Pull your pants down and cut off your balls, and add some vanilla extract. You do what the recipe says. No questions." New Hampshire said, looking very close to chuckling loudly. England nodded, rolled his eyes, and set about cracking eggs into the mixture. Having a showdown in the kitchen wasn't how he usually spent his holidays but, _really_, it beat having a Christmas alone.

Fucking children and their fucking uppity attitudes.

* * *

*Technically, he stared up his nose at them since they all happened to be apart of America's Glamazon tribe. Which, England was sorry to say (although he wouldn't ever admit it) that he didn't qualify to be in it because they all happened to be tall, tan, and dangerously good looking.

**Actually, the ones you had to look out for were the quiet ones like Latvia. Or, well, maybe not Latvia because the boy probably couldn't set up a bomb with that horrid shaking of his. But after the quiet ones, you had to watch out for the smart ones posing at the stupid ones. America, England was quite sure, only acted stupid. The boy could, after all, be frightfully and surprisingly sharp when he wanted to be.

* * *

It had been years since he had last seen New York and, apparently, the little tart had grown into quite the carbon copy. Except, of course, for the undeniable fact that he chose to wax his rather substantial eyebrows. Upon observing this fact, England couldn't quite decide if that was insulting or not. He would have understood it if he were, say, Georgia or Virginia because girls didn't need to prancing around with giant eyebrows affixed to their forehead. But with men? Why, it was practically a sign of masculinity*! Still, it didn't mean that England was annoyed with New York because of his eyebrows. Oh no, not at all. What _was_ annoying him about New York was the fact that Massachusetts and New York were hell bent on ruining the only Thanksgiving Dinner that England had ever been invited to. America, who was presently attempting to make some sort of pyramid in the middle of his potatoes, seemed to be completely oblivious** to the fierce argument that was being held across the table.

England himself didn't really know how to handle it and he was their other parent. He recalled, vaguely, that New York and Massachusetts had always had a very friendly sort of rivalry as children. It had always been 'Daddy! Look at my model boat, isn't it better than Charles'?' or 'Pop! Look what I can do with my elbow!' but, apparently, over the space of two centuries, the two had developed something far more dangerous.

"Yeah, yeah, mattress muncher, Massachusetts is full of nothing but weak-kneed liberals." New York said, quirking a manicured eyebrow and taking a sip of his _wine_. Since when did New York drink bloody _wine? _Secondly, it was _French_ wine and that just served to make England all the more against New York. That little wanker was really starting to get on his nerves even if the boy was supposedly "cultured" simply because he openly embraced the arts. Oh, _please_, that just made New York a drug-addled bohemian with decidedly liberal views and, yet, here he was calling Massachusetts a liberal. This was all rather confusing.

"Oh, what_ever_, Charlie. You're just pissy and jealous that nothing cool has come out of New York. Secondly, so what if I'm liberal? You are too, you asshole." Massachusetts said calmly, stabbing his sweet potato with a little too much vigor. England distinctly heard the china crack slightly. That couldn't be good.

"No, but you're even more liberal than I am, ass bandit! You legalized same-sex marriage, remember? Plus, one word, _buddy_. _Broadway_!" New York announced as Maryland rolled his eyes and tried to steal something off of Connecticut's plate. Rhode Island was glaring darkly at the pot of gravy and England wasn't sure if he could still eat that without having a hex put on him.

"Oh, wow! _Show tunes_! That is _so _exciting, Charlie. I can't believe you think that is seriously cool. You're so full of it."

"Hey guys, hey. There's this thing called dinner. We're sort of doing it right now and it'd be really cool if you guys could just shut the fuck up for, like, two seconds." America said, putting his two cents in.

"Is this all because of baseball?" England asked Virginia, who was sitting on his right. She nodded solemnly, trying to ignore the mounting tension and fervor of the argument that was now escalating into nothing short of the second Civil War.

"Yeah, well what's the coolest thing to come out of your fucking state, Masshole?" New York snarled hotly, slamming his hand down on the table. England could practically feel the hair on his arms standing on end due to the static electricity that was snapping and crackling around Massachusetts and New York menacingly.

"Two things, Fuckface. Kennedy and the fucking Revo—"

"England!" America shouted suddenly, causing Georgia, who was seated near him to jump, in surprise at the sudden flurry of movement and loud noise that came from America's mouth.

"Yes?" England spluttered, feeling a little surprised.

"Could you pass the, uh, the ketchup?" America said, giant grin splitting his face nearly in two.

"Ketchup?"

"Oh, wait. Never mind, babe. I, uh, decided I didn't want any. Because usually Heroes don't put ketchup on turkey." America said after a moment of awkward silence.

"Nobody liked Kennedy." New York continued, rolling his eyes and taking another large swig of his wine.

"_Hey now_, I liked Kennedy! He was a really nice man and his politics were pretty swell, too! Don't come with that bullshit, alright? Plus, we're at the tables, Charlie." America said defensively, throwing his fork down onto the table top, smile faltering somewhat.

"Yeah, that's probably because you were having an affair with him!" New York returned, looking horribly cross. And there it was. This was the moment that England had been waiting for. The chance to defend the honor of the person England was courting had just come up and floundering somewhat because, _really_ England hadn't thought it would ever actually happen, he slammed his fist down onto the table. All the noise and activity in the dining room seemed to come to a screeching halt.

"Charles, _don't _speak to your father in such a manner! Why don't you and your brother settle down, please. You're both ruining the dinner by being so argumentative. So, let's all just belt up and eat the damned dinner." England shouted, looking at one state's face and then the next.

"Oh, fuck _off_, England. We don't need you telling us what to do. You don't have any fuckin' room to speak here. Why don't you just walk out of our lives again because, _wow_, _you're _such a good fuckin' parent." New York muttered sarcastically, rolling his eyes and looking terribly bored with England.

This single movement and phrase caused something in England so simply snap. And, _honestly_, he hadn't been this angered in a rather long time. _Twice_ in the past two days, England was sure his blood pressure was going to shoot out of the proverbial roof. It seemed, to England at least, that New York was simply trying to offend him. Oh, God help the poor boy because not only had he baited England, he had pissed him off to a near furious extent. That little twat was simply begging England to be humiliated.

"Charlie." America said warningly, noticing the facial tick that England had suddenly developed and knowing that this could very well become the first step to World War III.

"Are you bloody fucking kidding me? I walked out on _you_? I'm sorry, were you around for the fucking Revolution? I _distinctly_ recall you having some level of bloody fucking involvement, you ungrateful, pretentious little prat. Don't you look at me and say _I_ walked out on _you. _It wasn't me that decided to kick my arse out of this family. You people kicked _me out_ and thank you _so_ much for bringing up such a painful subject! While you're at it, you little _twat_, why don't give me a nice paper cut and pour lemon juice on it, you bloody wanker! Shut the _fuck_ up and eat the rest of your goddamned turkey!" England said, slamming his fist down on the table to punctuate this word and that one.

Everybody at the table looked perfectly scandalized. And, amazingly, that was bloody _good_ because England didn't feel like putting up with scathing looks and muttered insults in his direction. There was a beat of awkward silence where America and New York regarded England with slack jawed expressions that were on decidedly opposite sides of the spectrum of disbelief. America's face was practically ecstatic while New York looked as though he wanted to rip out England's heart and then show it to him before he handed it promptly over to Paris Hilton.

"Elizabeth, dear," England said clearly, tone completely at ease.

Virginia looked up from staring at her fork with wide eyes.

"Yes, Daddy?"

"Please pass the gravy." England responded warmly, chuckling slightly when America's face broke into a giant grin.

"_Boss." _America mumbled rather loudly, looking perfectly giddy and ecstatic. Massachusetts still seemed to be recovering from watching the entire three-ring circus that had become the family's Thanksgiving dinner. England felt more than proud of himself for having dealt 'it' (whatever 'it' actually was) to New York. Well, _damn_ it felt nice to have such control over his own wayward and ill-behaved child.

* * *

*Or the fact that one had a _very_ unfortunate and almost freak-like gene pool.

**Actually, America was oblivious to it. He had just built up a tolerance to it that was rather impressive. Another impressive fact about America was that in 1857 he had won a ranch, three prize horses, and a punch in the gut from being able to spit tobacco unimaginable and awesome distances.

* * *

Twenty minutes after everything had been eaten, including pie, England found himself very comfortably reclined on the couch, America's head in his lap. Under normal circumstances, the Briton would have been particularly mortified of such an embarrassing display of public affection. Still, it was nice to simply relax on the couch after such a fulfilling meal.

"Oh, man. That was better than sex." America finally said, cracking one power blue eye open and grinning like a homicidal toddler who had been given a bag of cocaine.

"You know, I take that as an insult." England responded, returning the grin with a rather smug smirk of his own.

"_Ew!_" Twelve of the thirteen states shrieked after they had a moment to process what had just been said. Massachusetts was the only one who looked like he would genuinely start to cry or get sick all over the living room carpet.

_I am Massachusetts' raging need for therapy._


	8. Interlude: The Dangers Of Ice Cream

**A/N: Uh, seriously, this wouldn't leave me alone and, well, I just hand to write it. It's just a little extra something to keep you guys going because Chapter Eight is kicking my ass around my room and laughing at me; the damn thing! It's like a little gift from me and America to you! Alright, I'm stupid and can't really do math so, I suppose that Alaska was concieved sometime in April/May? I don't know, physics don't apply to this. Plus, it's _fanfiction, _so, laws of nature don't apply to America. So, here's a little fun bit for you guys. Read and Enjoy! **

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**October 3rd, 1958**

The small meeting to discuss the status of the Cold War had started about fifteen minutes ago and, lo and behold, America was spectacularly absent. Surprisingly so or, well, maybe not, not a single person in the room knew where England's troublesome former colony had gone off to. _Really_, it was just a tad ridiculous that _America_ would call for the meeting and then be late a good fifteen or twenty minutes to the meeting. It was wearing on his nerves and already, without America even _being_ present, England's temples were throbbing mercilessly.

The only other occupant in the room was France and the frog bastard was staring at England and puffing on a cigarette like it was somehow going out of style. England was about to make a comment about putting that filthy thing out and finding some other equally detestable habit that wasn't a threat to England's lungs. England rather needed those, just a little bit really. Although, it wasn't like his lungs helped with anything, really. They, after all, only assisted in little things like, say, _breathing_. That wasn't too important though because, well, England was sure he could have found some _other _way of maintaining his vital signs.

As England opened his mouth to snap irritably at France the door swung open and there, standing in the door, was America. England and France, who never agreed on anything but to disagree with each other, both immediately noticed two things that stuck out prominently about America. Firstly, the two blond nations noticed that America's face looked rather distraught if not outright upset. Secondly, they noticed that America's midsection had become extremely noticeable and greatly swollen. Then again, that should have been expected what with America's current "condition", as England had taken to calling America's rather sudden and unexpected pregnancy. Damn that Russian bastard and his mutant communist spawn. Honestly, Russia had no business get America's pregnant. Or, was it that America had no right to be fooling around with the so-called "enemy". Perhaps, England mused (he wouldn't _ever _admit openly to himself or someone else), that he was simply jealous that it wasn't an English child currently taking residence up in America's tummy.

"Sorry, I'm late. I was on my way and I stopped to get some food." America threw a manila folder down on the table and sat down quickly. America looked, to England at least, as if he was trying very hard not to burst into tears in front of England and France. France, whose lips had drawn themselves into an unmistakably _French_ pout, looked at America with enormous amounts of either lust or compassion. Knowing the French bastard's penchant for getting his rock off, it was most likely the former and, perhaps, a small portion of the latter. England wondered, briefly, if France and America had ever had sex when America was pregnant. Somehow, that thought made England feel horribly, terribly, disgustingly sick.

"Non, non, mon chéri, that is completely fine. You, ah, were only a bit late." France said, putting a pale hand on top of America's tanner one.

"No! It isn't bloody 'fine' at all. Didn't I teach you better? _Food? _You were late because you were getting foo—" England stammered and stopped completely when he noticed the dreadfully crestfallen look on America's handsome face. Under normal and not so hormonally torturous circumstances, England's scolding would have taken a completely unscheduled flight through the airspace over America's head. America might even have taken the scolding as a bit of a joke, and a very good one at that. Currently though, America's lower lip was quivering fiercely.

"Are-are you quite alright?" England asked, feeling as if he was standing on ice that was ready to suddenly break under his feet. Judging by the look on France's face, the bastard felt the same as England. France, getting out of his chair in a fluid motion, walked around the table and put a hand on America's shoulder. America, for all it was worth, looked like he was making an extremely _heroic_ effort to not cry in front of them because, let's face it, when did heroes ever cry in public?

"_No!_"America was able to wail out before he completely dissolved into tears, one hand going down to rest on his pregnant belly. England and France had always been at horrible odds with one another and couldn't agree on anything really. Miraculously though, they could both agree on the fact that neither one of them knew how to deal with awkward situations such as this. England scanned his memory, hoping that perhaps there was some sort of gentlemanly conduct that could be used in this situation. There wasn't. France looked like he was desperately consulting with the little French workers in his sad excuse of a brain on how to deal with very emotional and very _pregnant _ex-lovers. Apparently, the little head-workers, didn't have anything either. For a good few seconds, all England and France could do was sit in their chairs and do rather good expressions of goldfish who had suddenly been thrown onto an oven.

England, always the quickest thinker and fastest to recover, put a gloved hand on America's.

"Why don't you tell us what happened, Alfred?" England asked, rubbing what he interpreted as soothing circles on the tan skin of America's hand. France, not to be outdone, began messing with America's hair.

Whatever America was saying was such a garble that neither France and England, who actually _spoke_ English, couldn't make any of it out. France looked at England desperately as if saying that this was somehow _England's _fault for making America cry. England simply glared back at France, sending his own glare that effectively told the Frenchie to bugger off and mind his bloody pissing business.

"Alfred, chéri, we cannot understand a word you are saying. We know you are upset but, please, will you not make an effort to tell us what is bothering you? We are here, ma chère Amerique, to listen." France soothed, trying his best to be sympathetic when he was virtually staring straight down America's shirt. England could do nothing but roll his eyes for a moment. _Really_, could France not take one thing seriously? Of course, England had had children with America before and, of course, he had stuck around for the pregnancies that resulted in all _his_ twenty-six children. Still, he didn't really recall that America had ever behaved like this during those times. France, who wasn't a bloody gentleman at all, apparently hadn't stuck around for his pregnancies, though.

In the next few minutes, with help from England and France, America was calm enough to manage talking but not without random interruptions of hiccups and small whimpers. England, in commiseration, pulled out his handkerchief and passed it to his former colony, urging the distraught nation to use it as needed. America, England would see to it, would be keeping that one because, honestly, he didn't want to go home and wash it. Let the pregnant lad take care of that one on his own.

"Okay, well, you know how s-sometimes you see somethin' and you think: Wow, I bet that would taste really good if I just put some k-ketchup on it?" America asked, blowing his nose loudly. England and France exchanged vaguely disgusted and mystified look at the mention of the red condiment.

"Non, mon chère, but we are listening." France persisted, still playing with small strands of America's hair.

"Well, I stopped to get a burger and some fries because I was h-hungry. And I ate and stuff a-and I was on my way over here when I saw a little store that sold ice cream. So, I went in and I g-got a chocolate chip ice cream sandwich because, seriously, I love those. I got back in the car and started to eat it and I said to myself 'Ya know, Al, this would probably be even better with ketchup on it. So, I put some on it a-and—" America paused to blow his nose again and wipe a few tears off the lenses of his glasses.

"It was _ruined!" _Here, as if on cue, America's frantic sobbing began again. England, fed up with entire situation, got up and awkwardly manhandled the emotional nation into a hug which America immediately returned, burying his face into England's shoulder, getting the olive-colored fabric there wet with his tears and sticky with his snot. How perfectly wonderful, England would be doing laundry tonight.

"Er. I'm sure it will all be fine." England said, patting America on the back, who proceeded to practically snap England's spine in half as he tightened the embrace considerably.

"Oui, mon chèr, we are here for you."

"Yes, dear, some more than others." England mumbled.

America just kept crying. Oh, the poor dear. In all honesty, it stung England's ego just a bit that this baby wouldn't be born with his rather distinctive eyebrows. He just wouldn't tell America that. It would probably send him off into another crying fit, the big emotional ninny.

* * *

**Leave a review? I promise that Chapter Eight will be up soon!**


	9. On The Proper Way To Babysit Children

**A/N: I'm sorry! I'm _so_ sorry! Like, seriously. You have no idea. I just, I have no excuses other than the fact that this took me forever to write and I really hope that you enjoy this chapter. I know that this took forever to get up but it took me forever to feel comfortable with it. I'm still not totally happy with it. This isn't the greatest chapter ever so, seriously, I totally sorry. But, uh, try to enjoy it anyway! Happy reading!**

* * *

It was a universally acknowledged fact that when humans got old, certain things were to be expected*. Although England wasn't what one would have considered a "normal" human being, it still stood that, bleeding _hell_, he wasn't getting any younger. England, in all his ripe and horribly old** glory, had learned several things about the aging country. Then again, not all countries that were as old as himself experienced these things but it struck England as infinitely odd that, perhaps, England was the only one that seemed to have the attitude and habits of an eighty-year-old British gentleman. He was almost always grumpy, didn't understand the modern slang, found cardigans and argyle to be the most splendid of fashion, and happened to fall asleep fifteen minutes into whatever he was watching on the telly, even if he drank three cups of tea to keep himself awake. England was also very fussy when it came to his bedtime. England, for the past thirty-seven years, had been prompt about falling asleep at nine o' clock in the evening.

Presently, the phone was ringing quite loudly and horridly harshly into his ear. Bloody _hell, _who the hell was calling him at—what time was it? It was one thirty in the bleeding morning and some idiotic git was calling his _house_? Groggily, England groped about for the phone and found it. Quickly, so as not to make the other person wait to be reprimanded for waking him up so late (or was it very early in the morning? England, even in his own time zone, was horrid at figuring out when it was morning, simply due to the fact that the sun was never out in England) in the night, England brought the phone up to his ear.

"_Arthur?_" The other person yelled into the receiver and, good _God_, it was too damn early to be dealing with something like this. Who the bloody hell even _called _at one in the bleeding morning? Ah, yes. The apple of his eye, the love of his life, apparently had no qualms about waking him up from the sleep he actually needed.

"Alfred, it is one-thirty in the morning. I would appreciate it if you weren't screaming into my ear like some sort of car alarm." England snapped, voice slurred and rough with sleep. Why the hell was America even calling him? Who actually called people in the middle of the night to scream into their ears quite rudely? It must have been some odd American tradition that England wasn't aware of.

"Sorry! Sorry!" America continued shouting into the phone, abusing whatever was left of England's already damaged hearing.

"Stop yelling! I can hear you, god damn it! I'm right here, you little prick." England growled, sitting up and reaching blindly to turn on the rather quaint and antique lamp that he had had for decades. Tiredly, he scratched at his chest and barely managed to stifle a wide yawn that threatened to make him sound like a complete ruffian if he went ahead and yawned so loudly. Really, even if he was on the phone with America, he had to at least maintain the illusion that even while he slept, the older nation was a perfect gentleman.

"Sorry. I'm really sorry. Look, I need a favor, like, for serious. I need one." America said, voice distorted by something that England decided was static.

"Well, make it quick. I was sleeping and I'm quite tired." England grumped, scrubbing at his face with his hand roughly.

"Well, alright. I have a surprise for you but, uh, I have to go to Paris to pick it up. And I kind of need to leave the kids with you for a while." America asked loudly, and motherfucking _unicorns_, hadn't he already told America countless times to be quiet? Did he have to tell America to use his "inside voice" because, apparently, America wasn't able to grasp the very simple concept of keeping one's voice down.

"Oh? You have a surprise for me?" England said, half-asleep and half-functioning mind only processing a small portion of the sentence. England smiled as much as he could manage without his upper lip cracking into a million tiny pieces. Wasn't that sweet? America had a surprise for him that he had to go all the way to Paris to get. How perfectly nice and thoughtful.

"Uh, yeah. But, I have to drop some of the kids off with you, izzat okay?" America said and, _really_, nobody should have been that proficient at butchering English contractions and making it sound attractive as hell. Not that England would _ever_ say that out loud because, really, he did have some sort of reputation*** to uphold. He knew that he was supposed to be completely disgusted with the fact that America didn't have a decent hold of the English language but at this time of day (or night), he couldn't quite bring himself to really care at all. Dropping noisily back onto the bed and still holding the phone up to his ear, England rubbed blearily at his eyes once again.

"Well, yes. It sounds fine. For how long?" England asked, fighting back a yawn that was all too eager to come up.

"Uhm, just for, like, a day and half. Two days, tops." America responded, voice suddenly growing distant as he shouted something that sounded like _Stop pulling her hair, Jules!_ then again, England's hearing might have been a little off what with the obnoxious shouts that were assaulting his ear every two seconds.

"Two days? You're sure that's all? Wait, what are you going to do be doing in Paris?" England asked, suddenly a little too curious. England knew quite well that America's going to Paris entailed some sort of surprise, thank _you_ very much. But what if America's going to Paris _alone_ had some sort of double meaning to it? Like, it was supposed to be a subtle hint that America was going over there to do horrid dirty things with France that only England was allowed to do with America. What if France and America were having some sort of illicit and raunchy affair that England wasn't supposed to know about? And, if they were having some sort of racy affair than England was certain that he would have to take a page out of Richard Gere's book about murdering French men****. England spared the alarm clock a glance and noticed that it was now one-thirty-four. It was too damn early to be paranoid about his relationship. He would be more protective in the morning, after his cups of tea.

"Uh, I'd tell you but then it sort of wouldn't be a surprise, England. That's the whole point of a surprise, duh. To be a sur_prise_. Jeez, even _I_ know that." America griped into a phone and England's mind was sluggishly kicking into high gear to try and find the logic that America's statement clearly seemed to lack. Rubbing at one of his temples, England wondered how many Tylenols he could take without overdosing.

"Yes, yes. Surprising surprises and something about France. That's smashing and it's all well and good, but I just want to know who you're dropping off." England said, getting up and padding to his bathroom, flipping the light on and cursing quietly at the stinging his eyes gave in response.

"Oh, uh, let's see. Uhm, Hawaii, Alaska, Arizona, and New Mexico." America said, pausing again to shout something to whatever child was being particularly unruly in the background. From what England could gather, a very disgruntled infant was screaming their lungs out for whatever reason. America, who was probably used to such ear-shattering and blood boiling frequencies, was shouting into the phone and England was tempted to simply hang up or throw the phone up against the wall.

"No, no. It's perfectly fine." By which England really meant: _I have a desperate suicide wish and want to die at the hands of several American children. _

"So, cool. I'll probably be around in, I dunno, like fifteen minutes. My flight doesn't leave until seven so, I figured I could just chill at your place." America responded, by which he really meant: _Oh man, you are _so _getting a coupon for sexual favors this Christmas. I'm doing something nice for you later. _

"Yes, yes. Smashing, Alfred. That's perfect." England said, cracking his knuckles as he rummaged through his wardrobe to find something suitable to wear. _Really_, because gentlemen didn't answer the door in their night clothes. Gentlemen, no matter what time of day it was, were expected to entertain guests while wearing something suitable and decent. England, being a gentlemen*****, wasn't about to be caught unaware at one in the morning, even if he'd had his very important sleep interrupted. Then again, when had sleep ever come before America? Never, that's when.

It seemed to be some sort of unspoken rule between America and himself that if England was ever in the middle of doing something trivial, such as sleep or, perhaps, surgery, that England would abandon the task at hand and put himself at the beck and call of America. Of course, it hadn't always been that way and this odd development had come into being sometime after the second World War because England supposed one had to be nice to the person that had been a former child at one point in time. Still, it always made England a tad squeamish whenever he thought of America in those terms. He preferred 'colony' over 'child', and 'lover' over 'ally'. Then again, that may have been because England liked a little bit of comfort in his words.

So, turning on the sink, he set about washing his face and fixing his hair. He would look good, if only for America's sake. Well, that and he didn't really want to scare America's children. He remembered a horrible story that America had told him about France and babysitting that ultimately culminated in poor Alaska practically dying of shock when the child saw France with some sort of terrible green muck smeared over his face. America had tried to explain to the terrified and screaming child that it was just Uncle France trying to look pretty. Needless to say, England was nothing if not sharp and he learned from the mistakes of himself and other people******.

* * *

*"Certain things" included joint, muscle, back pain and charming little things known as balding and liver spots. It also included a very strong oral liking of hard candies flavored like butterscotch, in particular.

**Not that he was old or anything. Because, really, he _wasn't_. He was just . . .seasoned.

***This reputation was made up of several exceedingly English things such as blatant cynicism when it came to everything, a penchant for food that was ready once it lost all taste, an awkward sort of loathing toward all things French and the belief that three tumblers of scotch did wonders for the liver if it hadn't already been pickled. It also involved a very strong liking of tea, scones, crumpets, grammar, and commas among other punctuation marks.

****England had once seen the film _Unfaithful, _and quite frankly he knew what he would do to if the frog ever put it into America's head that all good American boys let France get into their knickers without England knowing (or at least being invited to watch). He would, under those circumstances, have to fracture France's skull with a decidedly festive snow globe.

*****Of the self-proclaimed kind.

******Point in case, Napoleon had tried to invade Russia. It hadn't worked very well at all. A couple centuries later, Hitler had tried. It hadn't worked that time around either. Now, it wasn't that he was calling either of them stupid (obviously, it went without saying that they were, no matter how hard either of the two tried to deny it), England was just clever enough to figure out that, _hey_, maybe invading Russia was a bloody fucking stupid idea.

* * *

America had always had an incredibly nasty habit of yelling. If he wasn't shouting because someone on _The Price Is Right _wasn't good at guessing the price of certain items than he was yelling because the drive- through speaker at his local fast food joint wasn't quite up to par. America was simply extremely and obnoxiously loud even when he was doing things that barely required speaking, such as putting laundry in the washing machine or pushing a jawbreaker around in his mouth. It drove England to the brink of insanity and it had always annoyed him; really, it shouldn't have surprised him at all that America was making a hell of racket by pounding on his front door.

Straightening his tie, England took one last quick peek at himself in the hallway mirror before calmly walking to the front door. The closer he got, the louder the incessant and annoying knocking became. Honestly, if he didn't have a relationship with America, England would have answered the door, cutlass in one hand, pistol in the other and with a fearsome look on his face. Then again, no one ever really came knocking on his door if it wasn't America*. England really needed to learn how to make and keep friends that were beneficial to his health.

The knocking was getting on England's nerves and, sweet _God_, it wasn't like he was that far away from the door that he couldn't hear the knocking. Oh, America, the big dumb brute could work England in two distinct directions. Point in case being that America could work him up until England was about three short seconds from ruining the inside of his trousers _or_ that America could call him at ungodly hours of the night, conning England into helping maintain his brood. That little bugger really _did_ have him whipped _and _on a short leash. Well, fuck his life, please and thank you.

"Stop knocking, damn it!" England shouted as he practically tore around the corner and cracked his knuckles. The knocking, gratingly loud and so terribly annoying, stopped for a moment before the equally annoying and shrill ringing of his doorbell began. Oh, England was going to _kill_ himself.

With a frustrated growl, England flung the door open, staring at America who was holding Hawaii and Alaska and somehow managing to balance three separate bags on his shoulder while simultaneously shaking a baby bottle and testing how warm it was on his wrist. To his left, a girl that looked rather similar to Florida, except she looked about thirteen, was examining the front of her MacBook and looked up at England for a second before grinning widely. Oh, wasn't this perfectly _wonderful_? Another smiling blockhead that was no doubt going to be as annoying as only America and Spain knew how. She was probably about as perceptive as a piece of cutlery as well. Weren't all of America's children with other nations about as intelligent as sacks of dried corn? Then again most of America's children that weren't England's were all about as useful as giant sacks of dried corn.

Next to the Spain-Girl, stood Arizona. He wasn't exactly well-acquainted with Arizona but England had had the displeasure of meeting him at Hawaii's birthday party. Arizona, looking groggy and rather melancholy, looked thirteen as well and England knew _exactly_ how teenagers worked. Mentally, he made a note to himself that he would have to be looking out for some sort of rebellion with these two.

"Uh, 'scuse me, kids but aren't you gonna say 'hi'?" America said, popping the bottle in Hawaii's mouth who immediately began to suck on it noisily. England felt some paternal instinct within him flicker on because, _good God_, that was probably one of the most precious things he'd seen in a very long time. He didn't quite recall any of his children being that adorable when they devoured their bottles.

"Hi, England." Arizona said, running a hand through his hair and then waving at England slowly. The girl standing next to him rolled her rather large eyes and clicked her tongue in some sort of scolding. She proceeded to clear her throat in the way that only adolescent girls could manage when they found themselves to be of particular beauty and social importance. That was to say mildly, that this Spain-Child was apparently under the impression that she was on a much higher pedestal than everybody else present. England would gladly see to it that she was knocked down a peg or two very quickly.

"Oh. Right! Hi! I'm Remedios but you can call me Mimi, Mr. Kirkland. It's a really big pleasure to be staying with you! I'm New Mexico, by the way. " New Mexico said, reaching her hand out and smiling like a brown haired ray of sunshine. England simply looked at her and shook her hand and, _really_, he was surprised that she had the handshake of a forty-year-old man involved in business.

"Yes, well, hello, dear. Why don't you all come in." England said, moving aside and holding the door open for America.

"Do you want some help, love?" England asked, feeling that it was his duty as a gentleman to see if his former ward needed any help at all.

"Uh, yeah, just take these three bags and I'll tell you everything you need to know." America responded, setting Alaska down and dumping the three bags into England's hands. England was quite sure that his shoulder had just managed to dislocate itself from the sheer weight of the three bags put together. England didn't quite know what America had managed to shove into these but England fancied a guess that it may have been several bowling balls and, perhaps, an anchor. How America was able to carry the three bags and children on top of that, England simply had no bloody clue. Although, England should have known better because, _really_, America had once dragged about a nicely sized SUV around for a good hour or so with his bare hands. So, these three little bags were about as heavy as feathers to America. England made a strangled noise as he staggered to his coffee table and managed to not-gracefully throw the bags on the glass surface. The poor coffee table made a noise in protest that England interpreted as calling England a traitor.

"Mr. Kirkland, where's your bathroom?" New Mexico asked, smile practically making England's eyes water with the sheer bloody whiteness of it. England stared at her, distracted for a moment by the lighthouse beam in her mouth. England vaguely wondered if America randomly ordered his children to just get their teeth bleached once a month or something because, by _God_, England, in his long and illustrious life, hadn't ever known so many people with perfect teeth**.

"It's down this hallway, dear. First door on the left." England said, sighing and turning to look at America, who was still holding Hawaii.

"So, miss me much?" America said, hand still holding the bottle out to Hawaii who was attacking it with all the ferocity she could manage with her little mouth. England smiled because, well, _damn_ it if that child didn't look like Japan. It was actually quite surprising.

"Not particularly but, well, yes. I've missed you a tad, I suppose. At least with you not hanging around and carrying on with your wretched shouting habits, I've managed to get some actual work done. I've written quite a few letters." England said lightly, watching as Alaska walked on shaky legs over to America's leg and clinging to it. Poor thing must have been going through some sort of intense culture shock.

"Awh, I know you missed me. And, just sayin', missing me is so much better than writing bo_ring_ letters. Am I right, huh?" America said, question directed at Hawaii, who stopped devouring her bottle to giggle and grab a hold of America's hand which was busy fixing one of her pigtails

"You know, it really does amaze me how good you are with children." England chose to say, instead of making further comment on the fact that maybe, _just_ maybe, he had been completely crazed and somewhat weepy because he missed America so much. Good God, he couldn't just admit something like that out loud because, well, it would just sound so melodramatic and oh-so sappy. That simply wasn't England's "style", so to speak and abuse the only hip slang phrase he actually knew.

"Awh, thanks. It was actually pretty easy once I got a good hold on it, ya know? But, like, sometimes I have to stop myself from kicking some of the older ones' heads in. Jesus on a rickshaw, sometimes they just make me so crazy. But, hey, I love them all a lot, even if they are being crazy difficult." America said, smiling widely—and, _really_, England had never known anyone who smiled _that_ much—and pinching happily at Hawaii's cheek. Behind them, Arizona was busying himself with looking at this portrait and developing a very odd aversion to the little ceramic figurine of a kitten that was on England's mantelpiece***.

"Children are fantastic until they develop a mind of their own. They're all well and good with me but, good _God_, once they hit that odd little adolescent stage and their frontal lobe starts to develop, they should all just jump off a bridge." England said, tapping Hawaii on the nose and ignoring the somewhat offended look on America's face. Normally, England didn't really _ever_ bring up the Revolution but he was currently very tired and it was very early and, _really_, he couldn't be held responsible for every little thing that came tumbling out of his mouth like a Russian drunk out of bar.

"Yeah, well, sometimes that whole 'teenage' thing works out _pretty_ damn good for the rest of us." America responded, smile reaching almost dangerously to the ends of his perfectly handsome face. _Good God, _England simply couldn't get a decent hold of himself this morning. It seemed that every damn thought he had was about America being handsome or about America being the light of his life and all that mindless poppycock.

"Oh, well, no doubt about my dear. None at all. I was just saying that the most difficult time to raise a child is when they decide they know better than you do. I'm sure your children haven't really done that to you though." England said and _maybe_ he was being condescending about this thing, _just a little_. Well, _really, _it wasn't like England was always going to just turn a blind eye to this topic because he and America hadn't ever really discussed it and, at the moment, standing in the den with the television on in the background, England was bloody well determined to talk about this. Although, with that bloody horridly murderous look on America's face, England figured that, well, maybe this entire thread of conversation could come at a later and undisclosed date****.

"Actually, uh, yeah they kinda sorta did. There was this thing called the Civil War, a while back. Don't know if you, uh, were around for that." America answered flippantly, smile wavering for only a second. England was ready to retort with a perfectly witty comment but there was a loud crash from behind them.

_Bloody pissing bollocks on the Queen's arse. What the hell had that little tart broken?_

America was staring at Arizona with a look that England would have described as vaguely homicidal what with the way his glasses were flashing in a rather unsettling way that gave England the impression that, perhaps, America's glasses had a mind of their own. Arizona, with eyes widened to nearly comical proportions, stared at his parent, then at England, and finally at the shattered figurine of something that had formerly been a cat. Mentally, England did a small jig while fixing an irritated look on his face.

"Wow, really? Seriously, Julian? You know, you _would_. You _would _do something like that. What was the first thing I said to you when we got here?" America asked, rolling his eyes and jutting one of his hips out.

"'Don't touch anything', yeah, I know but–"

"No, Julian, I said 'Oh, hey, Jules, don't touch anything when we get inside.' What did you do? You friggin' went and touched something. And it broke. Look, I'm not angry at you but I think Arthur deserves an apology. Like, for serious." America groaned in exasperation, sounding every bit like an indignant babysitter or, perhaps, England mused, a teen parent. That was oddly fitting in England's opinion.

Arizona bashfully shuffled his feet and averted his eyes, staring at England with an increasingly shy look on his face. Good, the little brat deserved to feel uncomfortable and awkward.

"S-sorry, England. I didn't do it on purpose." Arizona said, scuffing one of his shoes against the expensive wood of England's floors and leaving an unsightly black mark that made blood rush and pound in England's ears. Why, that little prick was doing _this_ on purpose, no doubt about it! First, he came in breaking things and now he was scuffing up England's floor? _No,_ this was simply unacceptable and England wasn't going to stand for this sort of treatment.

"I accept your apology but, _please_, try to be a little more careful, Julian. There are some very important things in this house that I simply can't afford to have broken. And, please, don't run your feet like that on my floors, it leaves bloody horrid black marks that I can't get out." England commented, fixing Arizona with a very level look that spoke more volumes of distaste than any other glare in the history of the civilized world.

"Uh, sure, no problem. Promise I won't do it. Scout's honor and, uh, stuff like that." Arizona said, cracking his knuckles nervously.

"Yeah, little punk, you better not." America returned playfully, smile returning on his face without a hint of any care. England, seemingly possessed by some horribly happy little demon*****, smiled along with America and his clumsy offspring like it was the only thing that he could do.

"Well, Artie, lemme tell you what's in these here bags." America said, setting Hawaii on the ground and cooing at her before stepping over to the coffee table and hoisting one up. England could only stand there and look decidedly stupid as he watched America open the bag and peer inside because, _really_, what else was England supposed to do.

"Okay, so, this one is Arcady's bag and it's got all his stuff in it. His formula, his binky, that weird rag doll that looks like his dad that Russia gave him. Oh! There's something totally important that I forgot to tell you. I don't know if you get, like, a bazillion bees or something here in England but Alaska is super allergic. I'm talking allergic like you wouldn't even believe. He gets all red and his throat closes up and—seriously, its scary as hell. So! I have these super duper handy little injections thingies that Cady's doctor gave to me. So, if he gets stung, just stick him with one of these suckers and press down." America explained, holding one of the aforementioned syringes up to England so the Briton could get a good look at it.

"Oh, the poor thing is allergic to bees? How unfortunate. I'm sure that won't be a problem, though. I honestly cannot remember the last time I saw any sort of bee around here." England said dismissively, giving America a reassuring look.

"Right, well, no. I'm just saying that, hey, if he gets stung by some weird freaky pixie-unicorn bee thing, that you just have to stick him with this and he should be all set." America responded, blue eyes catching the light and making England just a little _too _breathless to be comfortable. _Hell_, he would've been absolutely furious that America was making fun of being able to see mythical creatures under different circumstance but, _damn_, America looked positively edible at the moment.

"Right, right. So, the blue one is Arcady's bag and the pink one is Kalani's, I'm assuming." England managed to say, sounding a bit winded or as if he had been punched in the stomach repeatedly.

"Whoa, right on the money, big boy." America said, winking widely and holding up the pink bag so that England could look at it. England would have looked at the pink and frilly bag if he hadn't so suddenly distracted by the fact that America had called him "big boy" because, _honestly_, that was almost as good as dirty talk for England.

"Yes, well, I try. When does your flight leave, America?" England asked, watching as Arizona bent down to pick up the pieces of the shattered cat figurine.

"At seven this morning, so, I hope it's not too much of a hassle if I take a nap on your couch. I'm totally spent. Right now, I'm seven different kinds of tired." America said, tossing the bag back onto the coffee table carelessly and yawning widely to illustrate his point.

"Oh, no. I wouldn't have any issues with that but you are quite welcome to sleep in my bed if you were so inclined." England said, crossing the room to help Arizona pick up the pieces of the broken figurine while going through a mental list of things that involved America in his bed. None of the options, England was sorry to say, involved sleeping whatsoever.

"Thanks, but I'm going to have to say 'no' to that, Artie. You and me both know that no one is gonna get any sleepin' done, if that happens." America answered, winking playfully and cracking his neck loudly.

"Oh, ew. Do you want me to go to therapy?" New Mexico griped as she reentered the room, rolling her eyes toward the ceiling while Arizona stuck his tongue out and feigned a generally sick look.

"Don't make fun of your Sam's precarious mental state, it's not cool." America responded, just as smugly as his child.

"Did you honestly just use the word 'precarious'? _Moreover, _you used it _correctly?_ Who the bloody hell are you and what the sodding hell have you done with Alfred Jones?" England needled, smirk tugging at his mouth. It wasn't that he was particularly interested in the fact that America _had_ actually used the word 'precarious' in a sentence, it was just second nature and almost involuntary that when America said something that was vaguely intelligent England had to retort with something.

"I'm a _clone_ and I tied him up and threw him in a hall closet that used to be the house of Darth Vader and that dude that did the voice of Scar from _Lion King_. Seriously, that's the _best _Disney movie _ever._ No contest, hands down. It's pretty bitchin'." America babbled, shoving his hands in his pockets and smiling lazily. England had to admit (mentally, mind you) that the look suited his former colony and current lover. Sighing, England made his way over to the couch and nearly tripped over a multitude of toys that hadn't been on the rug a few seconds prior. England now understood why America's house was always a bleeding mess.

"I'm sure that's exactly right. Why don't we find a room for the kids?" England suggested, picking up the two bags on the coffee table and making an expansive gesture to the hallway that connected the front room to the rest of England's large house.

"Sounds like a plan." America, New Mexico, and Arizona all said at the same time. England had to admit that was just a tad creepy, _just _a bit, really.

* * *

*Except for Sealand. But, well, Sealand didn't exactly _knock_ on the door as much as he crawled through whatever opening he could find and then take up temporary residence in England's laundry basket, lying in wait to throw laundry detergent in England's face in an aggressive attempt to persuade England to acknowledge him. Sadly, it never really worked out for the not-country.

**America knew this, actually, because France had told him once when America had been expecting Vermont, France's first child with America. France had said that because England was an island, there was only so much inbreeding the poor country could take before teeth started coming out of his people's nostrils. America, after hearing this, had gone on a personal vendetta to make sure that none of his children with England had teeth on any odd part of their body. He also insisted that they keep at least a minimum of six toothbrushes in their bathrooms at all times.

***The small ceramic kitten had been given to England by Greece as a "Secret Santa" present a few years back. England hadn't really known what to do with in other than let China fawn over it and say it was the cutest thing in the entire world. England would have thrown it away the second he got home but there was just something about the entire idea of throwing away a gift that made England feel sorry about it. Secondly, the little buggered thing had these hauntingly lifeless eyes and, what England assumed, was a smile that made England think of Russia. Still, no matter how much it made England feel uncomfortable or creeped America out, England still couldn't throw it away.

****Like never. That sounded like a perfectly reasonable time to discuss age-old issues and problems.

*****It's name was Love and England had been fighting a losing battle against it since 1500s.

* * *

At five-forty-five in the morning, England, once again torn from his sleep and as grumpy as ever, walked with America to the guest room that the two older children were holed up in for the duration of their stay. England, fighting back a yawn, opened the door for America to go into the dimly lit room. The two dark-haired teenagers were curled in on themselves, snoring away pleasantly and lost in their respective dreamlands. The lucky little bastards. America, being as quiet as he could, sat on the edge of the bed and brushed some of New Mexico's hair away from her face.

"She looks a lot like Spain. It's kinda crazy, huh?" America whispered loudly. England shrugged and nodded, supposing that, well, yes she _did_ look a lot like Spain. It was actually quite disconcerting.

"Yes, but, she seems to be very … she takes after you quite a bit, as well. Her personality reminds me of you." England whispered back, resisting the urge to put a hand on America's shoulder because, _really_, this wasn't a bloody Harlequin romance novel. He wasn't a busy heroine who was about to launch herself into America's strongly muscled arms. If anything, America should be falling into his arms like a blushing maiden.

With little show or flourish, America pressed a small kiss to both of his children's foreheads and dragged England out of the room with him. He made the same rounds with the two infants and the only hitch in the plan was that Alaska seemed to wake up for a second but quickly fell back asleep when America pressed a cool hand to his pale forehead and hummed a quick and happy tune that sounded vaguely familiar to England.

"I guess I'll be going now. This'll be the first time I've been away from the kids in a while. It's weirding me out and messing with my head a bit, ya know? I just feel like if they need something I'm not going to be able to help them. But, whatever, I'm sure you'll do just as good as I do. Well, not _as _good because I'm the best according to like the sixty million coffee mugs I've gotten over the years, but, hey. What can ya do? Not everyone can be the coolest, best, most awesome, über heroic Dad in the history of ever. But, hey, every hero has a sidekick and that's what you're here for!" America babbled as he threw _his_ bags into the trunk of the rented car that seemed to acquire a scratch suddenly when America walked by it briskly onto the porch and crushed England to him in a tight hug and a searing kiss.

It would have been dreadfully and sickeningly romantic if England had been able to concentrate and analyze it. The only thing England could think was that, _bloody hell_, he couldn't _breathe_. He was going to die on his own porch because America, daft fool that he was, was practically squeezing his lungs out of his throat. Good God, he knew America was freakishly strong but this was taking things a tad too far.

"I'm gonna miss you, too. It'll be okay, though because I'm gonna call you to check up on the kids so you'll get to hear my voice. So, don't miss me, Artie!" America said, pecking him sweetly on the forehead and England, for all that he was worth, could only stand there and look quite stupid.

"I—_what?_ Are you being quite serious, America? I'm not going to miss you, it's enough that you came here and dumped your children on me! I won't miss you at all, not _one _little bit." England snapped, crossing his arms over his chest and looking away so that America couldn't see the blush on his face which was completely preposterous as well because, God save the Queen, he wasn't bloody blushing. At all.

"Whatever you say, Artie! But I'll call when I get the chance! By the way," America said, opening the car door and getting in and starting it up, "I love you and there ain't a damn thing you can do about it!" America crowed happily, careening out of the driveway with a surprising grace that shouldn't have been there. Now, in a moment of clarity, England understood where Massachusetts got his driving skills from. Good god, they should have just put America in a Bentley and dropped him off in Berlin instead of going in and fighting during World War II. God only knew what America would have accomplished in the space of a few hours.

As he watched from his post on the porch, England couldn't ignore how much he already missed America. Well, piss on him, it seemed he was going soft.

***

England, being seasoned and generally far more experienced in the ways of life, knew better than most that Murphy's Law was completely and utterly inexorable. So far and only five hours into his day, Murphy's Law had been working on England last nerves because, really, it seemed the world was just playing an extremely large joke on him. The Briton hadn't bothered cooking breakfast and had instead opted to take the four children in his charge to a small and cozy breakfast diner where they served all manners of healthy and delicious breakfast foods.

All in all, breakfast would have been rather enjoyable had Alaska not wailed and bellowed throughout the entire meal like the barbaric little Ivan-Spawn he was. After that, England had assumed that things couldn't possibly get worse. He had been so, _so very_ wrong.

Presently though, things had been going quite peacefully. England was reclining on his favorite chair outside, enjoying the afternoon air and taking his tea in the garden and being generally English. He was reading a letter from Massachusetts when Arizona attracted his attention by groaning and hitting the backspace on his laptop a few times extremely loudly. It was quite disturbing and England opened his mouth to make a comment about typing more quietly when Arizona looked directed a pleading look at him.

"Uh, Mr. K, I'm writing this report for my history class and—okay, I know that this is a totally weird and creepy question but, uh, I sorta have to ask it. Do you know if Dad ever slept with Prussia? Because, uh, my report is on Von Steuben and this has been bothering me the entire time. Sorry if this is like crazy awkward for you. I just gotta know." Arizona asked, looking extremely embarrassed and doing his best to avoid making eye contact with England. England wasn't quite sure after he heard the question that, even if he wanted to, he would have been able to make the eye contact with the uncomfortable adolescent boy-state across from him. England nearly upset his tea and quickly put it down on its respective saucer and was mildly alarmed when he heard a disconcerting crack from it. He hoped and prayed to dear _God_ that he hadn't just broken a piece of his fine china because _that_ simply would have been the icing on the bloody cake.

"I—I—_what?_" Was all England could manage to say, doing a particularly spectacular and accurate impression of a dying goldfish out of water. There wasn't any way he could answer this and get away from it unscathed because England was oh-so sure that this was a rigged question. England tried to relax a tad into his chair but found his mind filled to the brink with all manners of disconcerting thoughts that put him in quite an awkward stance*. He didn't want to think about Prussia getting a leg-over on America. He didn't want to even being to imagine that America had bedded that—that _scoundrel _for lack of a better word. While the word 'scoundrel' didn't exactly communicate his distaste for the Germanic nation, England could think of a quite a few colorful words that better described the bloody _awful_ albino that wouldn't be dignified in polite conversation. It wasn't that England disliked Prussia, it was just that England disliked Prussia so very strongly that even the mere _thought_ of him doing, well, _anything_ to America made England's blood rush this way and that rather like an undignified and confused train.

"I just wanted to know if Prussi—" Arizona began again, blush creeping on his tan face. Good, the little demon deserved to feel embarrassed about his horrid little questions!

"I _know_ what you said, you git! I heard you quite well the first time you opened your mouth. In answer to your question: My _God, _I should certainly hope not! Why—I—why are you asking me this question? I don't bloody know if your father slept with that bloody horrid twit! That's a question you'll have to ask him. I—what would possess you to ask something like that?" England asked, blood rushing to his face and pooling familiarly in his cheeks. Good _God_, it felt like his face was on bloody fire.

" I don't _know!_ I was just curious!" Arizona wailed defensively, blush now beginning to rival England's own.

"You shouldn't be! Curiosity kills cats and small children like yourself!" England snapped, noticing that New Mexico was running toward them, looking partly terrified and partly panicked.

"England!"

"What do you want, you bloody tart?" England shouted, frustration reaching a fever pitch. Well, this certainly wasn't good at all. Why, he was definitely sure his blood pressure was through the roof and currently residing quite pleasantly so on the surface of the moon, taking its afternoon tea**.

" Do you have any injectable Benadryl in the house, Artie?" New Mexico puffed out, thundering onto the porch with a surprising speed and strength that seemed oddly out of place in a young girl such as New Mexico.

"Don't call me that! Secondly, that's called 'heroin', Mimi, and I don't know about your father and his drug policies concerning you and your siblings but I'm not giving you any. Wait a minute, why exactly, pray tell, are you asking me this?" England asked, feeling considerably calmer than he most likely looked.

"Because Arcady just got stung by a bee and he's either, like, _super_ good at doing the worm or his throat's closing up and he's having a seizure." New Mexico practically sobbed out, pointing frantically in the direction of her fallen and ailing sibling.

"Oh, bollocks."

* * *

*Actually, it wasn't really an awkward stance as much as it was England's back straightened to a nearly dangerous level that, should the nation had bent over, his back would have served as a most wonderful table. It made Arizona wince slightly.

**Even England's blood pressure was exceedingly English. It was simply the way that England's body had developed over time. His liver was surprisingly stronger than even the livers of other nations. His stomach was made of grade A steel. And his temper was something nearly legendary when provoked. It was simply the natural way of the world.

* * *

**A/N: I'm so sorry you had to sit through that. I promise it'll be better. Leave a review and make my self-esteem go up?**


	10. On How To Properly Behave At Hospitals

**Notes: Hey guys! I'm back! Sorry for the long wait but I was having a difficult time writing anything remotely good. On top of that, I'm a slacker and I don't want my chapters to be painful to read for you guys so I wanted to make it good! So, I took a hiatus but now I have returned! Will you be rejoicing? So, here's a late gift from me to you, my dear readers! Happy reading!**

* * *

England reacted far more swiftly than he would have under other circumstances. It really was just a hop, jump and skip* inside to rummage like a mad man through Arcady's bag like the world was ending. Really, that wasn't such an inconceivable notion at the time because, well, this was _Russia's _child. As in, the child was the fruit of Russia's loins and England was sure, quite sure actually, that the sudden death of Alaska wouldn't sit well with the Cossack, even if England _did _use the bee sting as an excuse. Still, that hop, skip, and jump wasn't executed as quickly and efficiently as England would have liked.

England hadn't ever thought that he would be tearing around corners like a complete scoundrel in his own home**. Admittedly, England was a tad nervous. Just a tad, really. So, racing like a completely undignified gentleman around his own house, Brave Sir Kirkland careened over antique rugs and passed priceless portraits. Really, it was just his bloody luck that there would be a damned bee. Because, well, it just seemed that life rather liked to laugh at his expense***.

Finally, after careening down a _horridly_ long hallway, Brave Sir Kirkland managed to reach the god-forsaken bag that would not only preserve _Alaska's_ life but would keep England from having a mouthful of lead pipe and broken teeth. England violently rummaged through the damned blue bag, groping desperately for any fleeting feel of that blasted syringe. Good _God****, _where the hell was it? Oh, God, no! Alaska was going to die and then England would be found _dead_ in his bed with a sickle through his throat and Braginski's silver hammer in his head. Suddenly, and thank _God_ and anyone else who listened to him, England's hand came into contact with cool surface of the syringe. Praise God and all his damned angels!

Yanking the syringe from the bag (and throwing the bag to the ground in the process, along with everything else that was in the general vicinity), England raced toward the patio, feeling pressured and still quite nervous. Nearly breaking the glass on the sliding glass door as he threw it open, England managed to uncap the syringe and, at the same time, gave his ankle quite the twist as he flew back outside and practically skidding to a halt when he noticed that Alaska was on the front porch, turning a rather unattractive shade of red that was verging on the same color of maroon that England used to decorate his study. Oh, _bother_, this hadn't been in the job description. Needless to say, England just didn't know what to do _at all_—not that he would ever admit to that, of course. Still, the matter stood that England didn't even have an iota of knowledge about how to deal with this.

Damn bees and their sense of bloody horrid timing. He had half a mind to curse the pissing things for the rest of eternity.

England, as best as he could, struggled to uncap the syringe and yanked up Alaska's sleeve to jam it into his arm when a shriek for New Mexico stopped him.

"No, no! Put it in his thigh, between his knee and his hip! Do it before he dies, Mr. K!"

England, now a tad more enlightened than he had been a few seconds prior, feverishly tore the cotton of Alaska's pants up and jammed the syringe into the fleshy leg.

"Well, don't just fucking stand there, call a damn ambulance!" England howled over his shoulder and, bleeding holy hell, if all this stress wasn't crowing him the king of bloody Migraine town.

Behind him, although they were both seemingly as frantic as their current guardian was, New Mexico and Arizona noticed something that was rather astounding and came across as some sort of far-fetched revelation to teenagers that just didn't seem plausible: Mr. Kirkland was a pretty cool guy*****.

* * *

*Actually, it was more of a throw, clatter, scramble, and crash sort of movement because, well, England had quite forgotten about that sliding glass door that was there. Four hours later, England was sporting a bruise every color of the negative rainbow and a rather nasty headache.

**Then again, it wasn't very often that England was faced with taking care of highly allergic children with former communists built like tanks as their father.

***It was true, actually. Life did rather like to laugh at him. Life also sounded and acted peculiarly like Cary Grant. England knew this because he had met Life, once. They got along quite nicely, actually. He was a very pleasant fellow. A tad sadistic and fickle, though.

****Who wasn't being as sweet or good as England would have liked at the time.

*****Except, y'know, for the undeniable fact that he wore sweater vests. 'Cause that just wasn't cool even if you were Brad Pitt.

* * *

Because England was a well-read, well-to-do, and responsible substitute parental unit, the first thing he did was frantically transport Arcady Fyodor Jones* to the emergency room. The nurse hadn't harassed them at all which, England was happy to say, didn't sit badly with anyone involved. He was all in all quite happy that the child was now being fussed over by a proper medical staff. Amazingly though, England had had to admit something to himself that was rather _embarrassing. _

It had actually worried him that Alaska had been in such danger and, quite frankly, England had a nagging suspicion that he had somehow managed to develop somewhat of an attachment to the small band of ruffians that he had been given temporary charge of. This seemed rather odd to England because none of them were _his_ children and, well, the entire situation only served to puzzle him. There really was no reason that England could think of that would manage to endear the four states to him. Then again, England had always rather liked children and America** so, really, it shouldn't have affronted England so much that he felt close to them all.

Now, England noticed something else. As he leaned in the doorway of Alaska's room in the hospital, England felt that he would have been able to return to his normal manner if something hadn't been _bothering_ him. While he had been almost blindingly distressed by Alaska's bee sting—and England was _quite_ sure that the psyches of all personifications involved would be haunted for an indeterminate amount of time–there was an inkling of something sticking to the back of England's mind. It was something that hadn't ever, in the several centuries and eras that England had survived, been even a vague notion. England noticed, with an increasing sense dismay, that the pleasant little tingling on his frontal lobe was being caused by the fact that he felt _heroic._

Of all the damned things England could have felt—from being worried to being bloody damned paranoid—the only damn thing England felt was heroic. Amazingly, England did not perceive it to be a particularly unsavory feeling. Actually, it felt rather like into a warm room after having been in the cold for far too long a while. His nose and fingertips were tingling quite pleasantly and, well, now he understood why America was always trying to play the bloody damned hero. It was—and England would be damned if he ever said this aloud—quite a thrilling emotion and, really, England wouldn't have minded being exposed to it again. Then again, it wasn't as if England was going to become addicted to the feeling. He hadn't ever been one to have pointless obsessions***.

Unknown to England, an extremely awkward smile had managed to come up on his face while he had been musing this entirely newfound feeling. To one of the young nurses who was patting another child's back to relieve quite the hacking fit, it seemed a little less like an awkward smile and a little more like a salacious leer****. It suddenly seemed a little fishy to her that this man was standing in the doorway of Pediatrics and seemingly making eyes at the children inside. England noticed her stare and cleared his throat awkwardly, reaching into his pocket and crooking his finger toward New Mexico.

"Look here, Mimi, I'm going to call your father and alert him of this dreadful bee-related incident. I'm leaving you in charge, are we understood?"

"Sweet! I mean, yeah, sure, no problem!" New Mexico responded, smiling widely and, once again, momentarily blinding England.

"I certainly hope there won't be a problem. Or I'll be putting you all back into line." England said, looking back at her and waiting for his eyes to adjust to the light of the room after having been blinded so suddenly by her teeth.

New Mexico laughed for a second before England gave her an extremely straight face that seemed to make her second guess herself.

"I really don't see what is so funny about that." England said clearly in response to her laughing.

Her laughter wavered immensely, going to something that sounded vaguely desperate and threatened and then finally dissolving to an awkward coughing that England knew had nothing to do with any immediate need of New Mexico's to clear her throat.

Good, it seemed that he was still able to intimidate teenagers. At least he was doing _something _correctly.

* * *

*The receptionist had looked amazingly puzzled by the infant's full name. England had done nothing except give her a very stern glare when she opened her mouth to talk about. England wasn't about to comment on the fact that America and Alaska both had the same damn initials and if that wasn't bloody egocentric, he didn't know what was. Then again, Alaska's moniker simply may have been America's way of sticking his tongue out at Russia.

**Actually, England had been extremely fond of America _as _a child. That particular America had always been far easier to persuade and instruct in basic things.

***Needlepoint and tea were not pointless. They were truly basic and central things to the survival of the English race as a whole.

****And looking even more like a creepy pedophile to the nurse, whose name was Shannon.

* * *

The second thing England did because he was a well-read, well-to-do, and responsible parental unit was call America to inform of the whole horridly traumatizing event that was directly correlated to Alaska's well-being. So, standing outside of the hospital near a tall man with red hair who was puffing on a cigarette like it was going out of style, England quickly tapped out America's number on his phone*.

It rang several times and just when England was becoming frustrating, someone answered. Thank God someone had finally picked up, because England simply _detested_ being ignored when it came to important phone calls. Sadly, the voice that he happened to hear did nothing to put him at ease.

"Bonjour?"

_Really?_ Oh, wasn't this simply fantastic. _Of course, _this would happen to him! It only made sense that England's day would become far worse than it had already been. Yes, yes. He had completely forgotten that Life wasn't extremely fond of him. Bloody fan-fucking-tastic, this entire day had been.

"France, you wine bastard. Where's Alfred?" England asked, feeling another pulsing migraine tickling at his frontal lobe like it was an extremely profitable occupation.

"He—oh, well, he ran off to the bathroom. How rude of you, _Angleterre_, not even asking me how I a—" France began, sounding more and more like a complete idiot to England the more his damned French mouth jabbered on.

"Is he drunk?" England pressed, rubbing at one of his temples in a frail attempt to alleviate the pain that was pulsing there. Oh, _God,_ it felt like he was going to vomit at any time. Now, whether it was because he had an actual migraine or if it was because he was talking to France, or, perhaps, because it was the dreadful combination of the two, England wasn't quite sure.

"Non, mon chère, why would he be?" France asked in a manner that England could only describe as trying to be far too coy. It was extremely unbecoming.

"Are you being quite serious? Did you just ask me why he would be drunk? I'm sorry but, really. Francis, have you seen yourself lately? You're always pumping wine into people." England commented wryly, squeezing his eyes closed and taking a deep breath in an effort to calm himself and the Hellcat Migraine he was being subjected to.

"Ah! You wound me, Angleterre! I have no desire for your petit garçon . He does, after all, only have eyes for you. Besides, I am only interested in one person at the moment." France returned, voice tinged slightly with static. If it were at all possible—and good heavens, it seemed it was,—England's headache seemed to worsen.

"That poor soul." England responded, heart reaching out to whoever that poor dear was. Secretly, he hoped it wasn't Canada because that would simply be too odd and England would be forced to hear "keeping it in the family" jokes from quite a few crass and tasteless people.

"No, no, no! Antonio is lucky that I am bestowing such love and affection on him—" France responded, sounded mildly irritated that England thought Spain to be another victim.

"Is it consensual?" England pressed, inspecting his fingernails and deciding whether it would be dreadfully and terribly impolite to gnaw off a damned stubborn hangnail in public. The horrid thing had been bothering him for quite some time.

"But of course it is consensual!" France blustered over the phone, sounding rather defensive. Good, the French bastard deserved to feel as if he was being badgered. Not that England was badgering him, mind you. Gentlemen never badgered under _any_ circumstances.

"Yes, well, one can never tell with you." England said, finally deciding that maybe gnawing on it would be the best course of action but that it shouldn't have been pursued in the view of the general public but that it should have waited until he was alone and in the privacy of his own room, hidden behind a wardrobe and bothered by only a lion and a frosty witch.

"Oh, Angleterre, you wound me!" France cried, sounding more humorous than genuinely hurt and England wasn't quite sure if there really was a point to annoying France and vice versa anymore. It was dreadfully immature of both of them to be acting like such children, what with running around and being so terribly rude to each other. Then again, it was great sport and England wasn't about to give it up because it was immature. Besides, one always needed an activity that would keep their inner child alive and happily satisfied. For some it was playing video games or drinking lemonade, England's simply happened to be arguing with France.

"Shut up, you frog. I don't really care when it comes to your feelings. Now, where is America?"

There was an odd silence that was saturated with a mild static that may have been France breathing into the phone or may have been France rubbing the phone all over his chest with no real reason except for the fact that he was French.

Or, perhaps, it was France deciding whether he wanted to answer the question that had already been asked of him and to which he had already provided an answer to. England was quite sure that the odd static was because of the second option.

"I already told you, rosbif. He is in the bathroom. I'm expecting him back shortly. Were you aware that he had such a pushy bladder?" France asked. England found that this random bit of information didn't interest him and that, well, he had better things to do than to listen to France, whose main purpose in life was simply to filter air for the rest of the world.

"Frog, listen to me: I don't care about your commentary that I'm sure you perceive as incredibly intelligent and entertaining. It's not, I assure you. Where is Alfred? I'm not going to ask you again, you twat." England growled into the phone, feeling a rather impressive vein on the side of his head begin to throb with the force of his rising ire. God save the Queen, England could nearly _feel_ his blood pressure begin to rise.

"That sounded mildly threatening, rosbif. Did you just threaten me because votre vache is in the bathroom?" France questioned, once again sounding very relaxed and very French, if there was such a thing as sounding extremely French.

"You just called him something horribly perverted in French, didn't you? Didn't you, you French bastard?"

"Peut-être, peut-être non."

"I'm convinced you've raped him, you damned pervert!" England snapped accusingly, hoping to sound intimidating, which England knew fully that he was. Apparently though, he wasn't very frightening to France. Which was mildly disheartening because England was damned sure that he was so much _more_ than intimidating when he put his mind to it.

"Yes, mon chèr, and then I cut up his body and threw him into La Seine. His death mask will be massively popular, do you not think? He will be the most kissed face in the world!" France joked, morbid humor making England a tad uncomfortable because the mental image of that was simply _ghastly._ And, yet, strangely fascinating.

"You're a fucking pervert, you French freak. Once again, where is Alfred?" England pressed once more, this time sounding far more calm and sedated than he felt, what with his pulse thundering around in his head in that horrid manner it took to when England's blood pressure happened to get a might too high.

"I thought you said you weren't going to ask me again, mon chéri."

"_Oh, sod off, _you bastard faggot—"

"Is this not the pot calling the kettle black?"

"No you damn noodle headed dandy! It's the Englishman calling the idiotic Frenchman a goddamned _faggot_. _That's_ what it is! Where. Is. Alfred?" England all but bellowed into the phone. In all damn honesty, England was about two seconds and a quarter from hurling his phone against the nearest wall and then banging his head up against the aforementioned wall. Really, truly, what was so difficult about answering a question? A _single_ question that warranted a very simple answer.

"Well because you are so desperately insecure in your abilities as a suitable lover—"

"I am most certainly not!"

"Oui, you are! I shall tell him when he reemerges from the bathroom to call you. I don't know what he's doing in there—"

"He's trying to get away from you, you idiot." England said, finally placated enough that the dreadful cacophony of his rocketing blood had quieted down to a dull roar that he could live with. Still though, he wasn't satisfied with the state of affairs, not quite.

"Mais non! He loves me! He calls me the 'cool dad'! Is that not charming?" France asked and England could practically see him flipping his hair over his shoulder and batting his eyelashes in a futile attempt to appear childishly coy. Sadly, England wouldn't ever be fooled by that because France was nothing more than a washed-up whore. It was rather depressing really, if you thought about, which England didn't.

"No." England grumped curtly, massaging at his temple slowly. Good Lord, England needed an aspirin and he needed one _now. _

"You are far too uptight, mon chaton."

"Would you kindly shut up? Stop harassing me, please and thank you."

"I am not the one doing the harassment here. If I recall correctly, you were harassing me! Now, as I was saying, when your little boy emerges from the bathroom—he may be building a pyramid of soap bars, simple thing that he is—I shall instruct him to call you. Now, if you would be so kind to all us to finish our dinner, mon chéri." France cooed into the phone. England's patience—or, well, what was left of it, anyway— was quickly starting to disappear into some sort of dark and unknown oblivion that North Italy's mind seemed to exist in as well.

"Why the bloody fuck are you two having dinner? It's not a date is it?" Once again, there went England's blood pressure, rushing skywards for the umpteenth time in a single day. _No_, England was not insecure in his abilities as a lover _at all_. What the bloody hell did France know about love? _Nothing_, that's what. That bloody "Country of Love" business was all a damned fabrication.

"No, it is a dinner between two friends. I insisted it be a date but ton petit Amerique pushed for it to be a dinner. He mentioned something about it not being fair to you. Or some other mindless jargon like that. You know his tendency to talk and never shut up." France mumbled over the line, static tainting the conversation again. By this point in time, England was damned convinced that France _was_ rubbing the phone over his chest for no reason that was readily apparent to anybody in the history of ever.

"You mean that you stopped paying attention after the pursuit of sleeping with him was made futile."

"Peut-être, peut-être non."

"Well, when he does get out—if he's really in there and you haven't violated him mercilessly, as I'm absolutely that's what you've done,— tell him to call me. It's very important." England replied curtly, rubbing at the small space between his eyebrows, hoping for some small relief from the ache behind his eyes.

"Oui, mon chéri."

"Thank you. Now, fuck off."

"What? You called me!"

"By the way, you're going to fuck up with Antonio, like you always do! Good day, whore!" England said quickly, hanging up the phone before France could respond to his comment. Damn, it felt glorious to have the last word, even if it wasn't all that polite.

* * *

*England's phone wasn't so much a phone as much as it was a heavy brick died black with buttons scribbled on it. America and Japan affectionately called it "The Dinosaur". England called it his phone.

* * *

Hours passed and finally, England and his small band of nomadic American states were allowed to go out. They had been home for a good portion of the evening and England had just succeeded in calming Alaska enough to get him to sleep because God knew the poor little thing was tired.

At last, everything seemed to be going divinely! The older children were upstairs, playing their seventh round of Monopoly that evening. Hawaii had been put to sleep earlier with the aid of some odd American thing known as Baby Einstein, which managed to confuse the _hell_ out of England but lulled her straight to sleep. Only about fifteen minutes prior had England finally, _finally_, managed to get Alaska tucked into the safety of his substitute basinet*, suckling away on his chubby little thumb and looking generally angelic.

Blessed_, blessed _peace.

England finished pouring himself his tea and was nearly about to sit down on the couch to enjoy his stories when suddenly and without warning, the antique door to his house was very rudely kicked in. The poor door was nearly ripped off of it hinges, to chagrin of England.

At the loud noise, England startled and dropped his teacup and it shattered on the ground into a million small fragments. Oh, goodness _no! _Alexander McQueen had designed that teacup and now, well, it was in nothing but several shards littering his floors. As if the shattering of his favorite teacup wasn't enough, the noise had managed to startle not only Hawaii but Alaska as well, who immediately started wailing.

Standing in the doorjamb with France lurking behind him and smoking a cigarette, was America. The big oaf was brandishing some sort of ticket, grinning like an utter buffoon, and generally making England want to go over and kick him in the mouth. Then, perhaps, kiss him until they were both out of breath.

"Guess who's going to Euro Disney!" America shouted, winking and making an utter git out of himself.

And, perhaps, England wanted to kiss him. Only because America was finally here to reclaim his damned children. England simply couldn't have lived another couple hours with the annoying children.

* * *

*America insisted it was a bloody "play pen", whatever that was. No, that's not what it was at all. It was a basinet with mesh walls. Not a "play pen".

* * *

**Notes: Hope you had a good read! Promise I'll get cracking on the next chapters right now! **


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